T.       i     'v     ,•'      I 


Cije  Hiftrarp 

of  ttie 

^nibersiitp  of  JSortlj  Carolina 


Collection  of  Movtf)  Caroliniana 
C8»3 

C.2. 


This  book  must  not 
be  token  from  the 
Library  building. 


"  /  could  even  give  up  my  li/e,  to  save  the  life  of  atiother 
man,  if  I  believed  that  jou  loved  him.''— V.  209 


JACK    O'DOON 


m  novel 


BY 


MARIA    BEALE 


NEW  YORK 
HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 

1894 


/v 


Copyright,  1894, 

BV 

HENRY   HOLT  &   CO. 


JACK  O'DOON. 


CHAPTER  I. 

AN  old  man  stood  on  a  pier  head, 
scanning  the  sullen  water  and  lower- 
ing sky.  He  was  dressed  in  the  rough 
garb  of  a  tisherman,  and  his  clothes 
hung  loose  upon  his  bent  figure.  A  boat- 
swain's silver  chain  was  about  his  neck  and 
the  whistle  was  in  his  hand  ;  silent  now,  but 
he  held  to  the  habits  of  his  youth  in  the  in- 
firmity of  his  age. 

He  knew  the  portent  of  the  leaden  clouds 
whose  shaggy  edges  dragged  upon  the  black 
waters  ;  of  the  curling  foam,  which  the  in- 
coming tide,  with  each  repeated  breaker,  lifted 
higher  upon  the  sand  ;  and  he  groaned  as  he 
turned  at  last  dejectedly  away  and  followed 
the  shore  to  a  hut,  where  the  pale  blue  smoke, 
as  it  fell  to  the  earth,  told  of  a  fireside  within 
which  was  warmed  against  the  cold  and  damp 
without. 

Having  reached  the  door,  he  looked  again 
across  the  bay,  and,  by  the  lighi  of  the  yellow 


2  J  A  CK  O'DOON. 

line  around  the  sky,  saw  the  far-off "  surf- 
horses"  tossing  on  the  harbor  bar.  The 
channel  was  so  narrow,  the  shoals  so  many, 
it  would  be  grounding  and  death  to  ride  that 
foaming  line  to-night ;  and,  shuddering  be- 
cause of  his  aching  heart,  he  entered  the  low 
door  and  closed  it  behind  him. 

"  Could  you  see  nothing,  father  ?  "  asked  a 
woman  anxiously,  for  one  of  their  sons,  the 
latest  born,  was  mate  of  a  ship  which  had  not 
come  in  ;  and  the  father  was  picturing  it  as 
beaten  about  with  rudderless  hull  and  riving 
masts  ;  with  ragged  sails  and  snapping 
shrouds  ;  without  stay  or  brail  on  a  sky-bound 
sea. 

"The  Lord  ha'  mercy  !"  cried  he,  flinging 
out  his  arms  in  misery.  A  moment  later  he 
loosened  the  knot  of  his  yarn  comforter  as  if 
it  choked  him.  He  was  so  old  that  the  energy 
of  hope  was  dead,  and  there  was  no  strength 
in  him  save  that  of  terror.  Terror  of  inky 
waves  torn  for  ragged  shrouds  !  Terror  for 
battered  hulks  scuttling  down  !  "  O  Lord, 
Lord,  ha'  mercy,  an'  pity  my  boy  !  "  he  cried 
with  such  appeal  it  sounded  like  authority. 
The  woman  was  silent,  though  she  heard  dis- 
tinctly enough  the  surging  of  the  waves.  She 
knew  the  breakers  were  rising  high  and 
hollow  when  they  fell  with  such  lumbering 
crashes  upon  the  beach.  The  old  planks  in 
the  door  rattled  as  if  a  hand  had  shaken  them, 
and  the  wind  rose  higher,  and  shrieked 
dismally    in     the    chimney,    as    if  ghosts    of 


J  A  CK  O'DOON.  2 

drowned  sailors  from  all  the  seas  of  the  world 
had  come,  like  an  innumerable  army  of  martyrs, 
to  warn  these  poor  and  very  old  people  of  the 
bad  news  some  one  was  bringing. 

So  it  sounded  to  the  woman  who  stood 
p'-essing  her  hands  upon  her  temples  in 
dread.  Then  she  rallied  her  courage  and 
listened.  The  fire  was  sputtering.  She  put 
together  the  charred  logs,  and  the  salt  rime 
scintillated.  She  had  more  hope  than  the 
man  ;  it  was  natural  she  should  have,  since 
the  history  of  those  things  we  hear  does  not 
remain  with  us  like  the  vision  of  those  which 
v^e  see  ;  and  there  was  a  wonderful  tender- 
ness in  her  manner  of  wiping  a  tear  from  her 
husband's  cheek,  and  a  vast  resource  of  forti- 
tude behind  the  calmness  with  which,  out  of 
her  own  self-control,  she  strove  to  inspire  con- 
fidence in  the  man,  who  was  older  and  feebler 
than  herself.  But  no  cheer  was  in  him.  As 
they  sat  silent  in  the  gloom  of  the  smoulder- 
ing fire,  the  wrinkles  and  furrows,  sunken 
deep  in  their  faces,  told  the  story  of  their  hard- 
working and  weather-beaten  lives  ;  and  sug- 
gested in  the  career  of  the  man  bleak  nights 
at  sea  on  a  pilot  station,  cold  late  springs  on 
the  foggy  banks  of  the  mackerel  fisheries, 
and  numb  and  almost  devitalized  watches 
aloft,  when  the  morning  sometimes  found  one 
missing  and  gone  to  a  gruesome  grave.  A 
sad  relief  no  doubt  from  the  pinch  of  living. 

Harassed  by  such  memories,  the  old  man 
envied    the  pilot,    Jack    Gavely,  in   that    the 


4  JACK  O'DOON. 

Lord  had  spared  him  much  by  taking  him 
in  time  ;  and  in  sorrow  he  sighed  and 
wished  to  the  Lord  that  he  too  were  dead. 
The  woman  understood  him,  and,  con- 
science-smitten, endeavored  to  cheer  him 
by  making  the  fire  blaze.  The  kindling 
flame  illuminated  the  interior  of  the  hut. 
There  was  a  strange  commingling  from  land 
and  sea  on  all  sides.  Around  the  walls  were 
fragments  of  canvas,  mildewed  to  a  tender 
gray  ;  others,  red  with  tannin  as  Ionian  sails. 
In  a  corner,  like  a  gilded  trophy,  or  a  fetish 
turned  to  gold,  was  the  battered,  but  still 
gaudy  figurehead  of  a  brig  which  the 
waves  had  sent  for  a  votive  offering.  A  cup- 
board was  near  it  with  a  white  and  gilded 
door  ;  and  a  china  door-plate,  bearing  the 
words,  "  Gentlemen's  Smoking-room." 

The  joists  overhead  were  made  from  ships' 
spars  and  were  black  with  smoke,  which 
often,  as  now,  blew  down  the  chimney  in 
gusts.  Bunches  of  seaweed,  pink  and  yel- 
low, hung  from  the  beams  ;  and  all  the  cran- 
nies in  the  walls  were  filled  with  small  marine 
monstrosities,  such  as  sea-urchins  and  star- 
fish ;  and  little  crabs,  hung  by  threads, 
wriggled  in  the  streams  of  wind  which  came 
puffing  through  the  cracks.  It  was  a  living 
habitation,  compiled  from  fragmentary  evi- 
dences of  death  ;  made,  in  all  its  parts,  from 
the  debris  of  wreckage,  which  the  sea  had 
rejected  and  the  salvage  hunters  despised. 
There  was  a   faint  delicious  smell  from  the 


J  A  CK  O'DOON,  c 

cupboard,  where  a  piece  of  Malabar  sandal- 
wood was  used  to  close  a  crevice.  On  one 
side  of  the  cabin  was  the  imperfect  outline  of 
a  huge  number  9,  which,  though  battered  and 
worn,  stood  out  as  unmistakable  as  when,  on 
the  high  seas,  it  had  signaled  to  the  good  ship 
the  pilot,  ready  to  steer  her  in.  There  was 
a  clock,  too  ;  but  its  wooden  wheels,  warped 
by  the  fogs,  refused  to  run  ;  and  a  peg,  by 
the  shadow  that  it  flung,  told  the  hours  when 
the  sun  shone. 

In  the  daytime  the  outside  of  the  hut 
appeared  as  quaint  as  the  inside.  It  was 
crouched  under  a  dune,  and  the  shifting  sand 
was  slowly  encasing  it.  The  low  chimney 
seemed  only  a  hole  in  the  hill  from  which  a 
wreath  of  smoke  issued.  The  front  of  the 
little  shanty  was  much  pluckier,  however, 
and  put  a  bold  face  to  the  sea  ;  and  never  a 
gale,  though  it  blew  hard  from  the  northeast, 
had  had  power  to  loosen  its  roof  of  mixed 
wood,  tin,  and  tarpaulin,  nor  to  tear  off  one  of 
the  many-colored  boards,  as  varied  as  Joseph's 
coat,  with  which  it  was  sided.  There  was  a 
space  which  had  been  blue  and  bright  as 
the  skies  in  summer,  another  as  green  as  a 
meadow  in  spring,  and  a  great  dash  of  scarlet ; 
and  interspliced  among  these  were  yellow, 
brown,  black  and  white.  But  all,  motley  as 
was  the  mixture,  were  weather-beaten  till 
they  had  acquired  a  film  of  gray,  which  made 
them  tender  to  the  sight. 

It  was,  indeed,  a  queer  little  house,  yet  you 


6  J  A  CK  O'DOON. 

could  not  fail  to  see  it.  So  small  compared 
with  the  white-capped  sea,  and  so  small  com.- 
pared  with  the  hillocked  sand  ;  buried  in 
white  sheets,  it  looked  like  a  toy-house,  which 
a  child  had  taken  to  bed  in  its  arms,  and  had 
run  away  and  forgotten  in  the  morning. 

But  you  must  have  seen  it,  as  you  would 
see  an  eye  in  a  reposeful  face,  for  it  was  the  eye 
in  the  vast  speechless  face  of  nature  there  ;  the 
one  spot,  of  all  the  sky,  water,  and  land,  where 
life  and  soul  were.  That  night,  however,  the 
darkness  was  dense. 

The  old  couple  within  had  no  heart  to  eat, 
although  the  woman  had  filled  the  kettle  and 
spilled  her  tears  into  it  as  she  put  it  on  the 
crane.  She  had  brushed  them  away  as  she 
laid  the  cloth,  and  set  out  the  dishes,  and 
busied  herself  to  make  the  potatoes  boil  ;  but 
when  they  were  served,  she  forgot  the  supper, 
and  the  kettle  spluttered  and  steamed  in  vain, 
until  it  nearly  put  out  the  fire.  Just  then 
there  came  a  hesitating  knock,  a  timid  lifting 
of  the  latch,  followed  by  the  wrenching  of  the 
door  from  the  grasp  of  a  small  hand  which 
held  it,  and  the  inrush  of  a  gust  of  wind, 
bringing  sand  and  sea-spray  along  with  it. 
Both  were  startled,  and  arose,  confronting  the 
unexpected  visitor. 

"  May  the  Lord  bless  us  !  "  exclaimed  the 
astonished  old  man.  The  gale  was  so  fierce 
that  it  took  the  combined  strength  of  all  three 
to  close  the  door  against  it.  Having  done  so, 
they  barred  it  from  within. 


JACK  O'DOON.  y 

The  figure  which  had  entered  was  that  of  a 
woman.  She  approached  the  fire,  and,  kneel- 
ing down  on  the  hearth,  in  the  space  they 
made  for  her,  proceeded  to  put  the  brands  to- 
gether and  kindle  a  blaze.  The  hands  which 
she  stretched  out  to  the  warmth  were  delicate 
and  well  cared  for,  and  sparkled  with  rings  ; 
and  one  would  have  thought  the  wearer 
strangely  out  of  place,  wandering  alone,  on 
such  a  night,  in  such  a  storm,  amid  darkness 
and  danger. 

She  had  set  upon  the  table  a  double-glazed 
hurricane  lamp. 

"  What's  fetched  you  here,  Mercy,  when  the 
wind's  a-tarin'  the  sand-hills  down,  en  flingin' 
'em  into  the  sea  like  ez  no.  It  mus'  be  bad 
news  you's  bringin'  us,  sence  you  got  nothin' 
to  say,"  said  the  woman,  in  great  anxiety. 

At  first  the  girl  did  not  reply,  and  the  silence 
was  ominous.  At  length,  after  vainly  trying 
to  speak,  she  burst  out  sobbing,  and  buried 
her  face  in  her  foster-mother's  lap,  for  she  had 
come  to  bring  her  grief. 

The  old  man  clasped  his  hands  under  his 
chin,  and  swayed  his  body  from  side  to  side, 
with  the  necessity  of  an  active  nature  for 
mechanical  expression  ;  but  the  woman  was 
dumb.  No  tear,  nor  sigh,  nor  heaving  of  the 
breast,  marred  the  rigidity  of  her  desolation. 
She  looked  as  if  she  were  dead  herself,  while 
the  girl,  regaining  her  composure,  arose  from 
her  knees  and  sat  down  with  her  feet  to  the 
fire. 


8  J  A  CK  O'DOON. 

The  hood  which  she  pushed  back  from  her 
face  was  lined  wuth  fur,  and  her  cloak  was  also 
of  the  same  rich  material  ;  and,  as  she  sat  thus, 
the  eyes  of  her  two  companions  turned  inquir- 
ingly upon  her,  watching  her  draw  from  her 
pocket  a  newspaper,  slowly  unfold  it,  and,  with 
a  voice  tremulous  and  interrupted  with  tears, 
read  as  follows  : 

"  Yesterday,  at  noon,  the  bark  Junaluska  of 
the  Currituck  P'isheries'  service  arrived,  towed 
into  port  by  the  tug  Annie.  She  was  help- 
lessly dismantled,  having  lost  her  mast-heads, 
shrouds  and  sheets.  Her  rudder  also  was 
missing.  Still,  we  are  glad  to  say  that  her 
crew,  save  one  seaman,  Jacob  Billings  by 
name,  is  intact ;  but  she  brings  sad  news  of 
her  sister  bark,  the  Marianetta,  Captain  Free- 
mantle,  mate  John  O'Doon,  which,  when  last 
sighted,  was  listed  beyond  hope  of  righting, 
and,  without  spars  or  masts,  was  thought  to 
be  sinking  when  night  came  on.  This  was  on 
Thursday  last,  the  thirtieth  of  March.  The 
next  morning  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen  of 
her,  although  the  sun  rose  clear,  and  if  she 
were  still  afloat  it  is  thought  she  might  have 
been  sighted.  She  was  drifting  S.  S.  W.  No 
hopes  are  entertained  for  the  safety  of  the 
crew,  as  the  tempestuousness  of  the  night,  the 
frightful  roughness  of  the  sea,  and  the  small- 
ness  of  the  boats  make  it  difficult  to  conceive 
how  any  could  have  lived  through  it.  The 
marine  insurance  companies  sent  out  a  tug  in 
search,  which,  having  returned  with  but  one 


J  A  CK  O'DOON.  Q 

of  the  missing  boats,  they  are  inclined  to  give 
the  Marianetta  up  as  lost." 

The  paper  sank  upon  the  girl's  lap  and  she 
clasped  her  hands  over  it. 

"  But  surely  she  might  have  drifted  many 
miles  in  a  night.  Fifty  miles  with  such  a 
wind  !  Oh,  he  must  be  alive.  Dear  Jack  !  " 
cried  she,  in  such  sincere  and  bitter  grief,  that 
the  old  father  looked  at  her  in  wonder  ere 
he  replied  with  a  retrospective  frown, — 

"  Yes,  and  be  a-starvin',  and  a-freezin*  to 
death,  ofTn  the  shoals  o'  Cape  Hatteras  to- 
night. No.  Better  dead,  say  I,  and  over  with, 
than  sech  a  sufferin',  livin',  an'  dyin'  all  at 
once  !  Oh,  I  knows  I  I've  know'd  it,  and  I'd 
ha'  blessed  the  good  Lord  to  ha'  deadened  en 
a-drownded  me  with  a  big  stunnin'  header  at 
once." 

But  the  youth  and  hope  in  the  girl  resisted, 
and  clung  to  the  thought  that  none  had  seen 
him  die  ;  and  the  mother,  stimulated  by  the 
example  of  one  hoping  beside  her,  felt  her 
heart  warm  a  little. 

"  Dear  Jack,"  murmured  the  girl  gently, 
"  I  can't  remember  anything  without  him. 
Nobody  was  ever  half  as  good  except  you 
and  daddy,"  and  she  turned  to  the  old  woman 
with  a  caress  which  touched  her.  Sidewise 
to  the  fire,  her  profile  was  distinct  against 
the  light.  The  forehead  was  high  and  noble, 
but  the  apparent  height  was  diminished  by 
the  hair  which  clung  to  it  in  wet  ringlets.  It 
was  not  a  symmetrical  face,  but  a  kindly  one  ; 


lO  JACK  O'DOON. 

and  the  chin,  though  rather  broad,  was  rounded 
into  a  throat  of  great  beauty.  Her  head,  a 
trifle  large,  was  well  set  upon  her  shoulders, 
as  one  discovered  when  she  unhooked  the 
silver  clasps  and  spread  her  cloak  over  the 
back  of  her  chair. 

♦•  And  how  was  it  you  got  here  to-night  ?  " 
inquired  the  man,  shifting  his  anxiety  to  the 
girl ;  for,  now  that  the  worst  had  come,  he 
roused  himself  to  meet  it. 

"  I  came  alone,"  said  she  simply.  It  did 
not  strike  her  that  there  was  anything  heroic 
in  crossing  the  sand-dunes  by  a  familiar  path 
which  she  had  so  often  trodden  since  first 
her  infant  feet  had  toddled  along  it,  clinging 
to  her  foster-mother's  dress.  But  the  old  man 
shook  his  head  dubiously. 

"  You  might  ha'  lost  the  road  ;  en  afore  now 
the  sands  is  drefted  over  the  bushes  mor'n' 
you  can  make  'lowance  fur.  You'll  stay  here 
to-night,  'longside  o'  the  ole  ooman.  She'll 
stow  ye  to  le'ward  an'  I'll  set  here  afore  the 
fire  tell  mornin'." 

The  girl  hesitated  a  moment  and  looked 
at  her  watch.  "  It  is  eleven  o'clock,"  said 
she.  "  They  will  not  miss  me.  I  said  I  should 
go  to  bed  after  father  had  brought  the  news, 
and  I  did  undress  and  sit  down  by  the  fire  in 
my  room  ;  but  at  last  I  could  not  bear  it  by 
myself  any  more,  and  so  I  dressed  again  and 
came  down  quietly,  and  lighted  the  lantern, 
and  went  out  to  try  the  path,  and  finally  I  got 
here  ;  for  after  I  once  started  I  hated  to  stop, 


J  A  CK  O'DOON.  I  J 

and  I  kept  behind  the  hillocks  when  I  could. 
But  several  times  the  wind  blew  me  down, 
and  I  had  to  carry  the  lantern  under  my  cloak 
when  I  faced  it.  It  seems  strange  the  sand 
doesn't  drift  over  you  altogether,  these 
nights." 

"  It  will,"  said  the  old  man  with  conviction, 
•'  when  me  en  the  ole  ooman  is  dead,  en  there 
ain't  no  person  to  dig  it  away  ;  en  now  ez 
Jack  is  drownded,  en  he's  the  last  o'  our  crew, 
I's  been  a-tellin'  her  there  ain't  nar'a  fittener 
place  fur  her  en  me  ter  bide  in.  Jes  roll  us 
two  up  in  our  blankets,  en  shet  to  the  door, 
en  let  her  dreft.  She's  a  fair  ole  craft,  she 
be."  He  looked  round  upon  the  curious  walls 
with  satisfaction.  "  An'arter  the  door  is  shet, 
the  sand'U  purty  soon  close  her  down.  I've  a 
mind,  as  ye  won't  find  nar'a  spot  es  conse- 
crated fur  us,  Mercy,  ez  this  here.  There 
ain't  none  o'  our  childurn  now  to  come  back. 
They  was  born  here,  one  by  one,  but  they's  all 
foun'  another  cradle,  what'U  rock  'em  without 
gittin'  tired,  and  sing  'em  ter  sleep  nights  for- 
ever !  " 

The  pathos  in  the  old  man's  voice  smote 
the  mother's  heart  into  a  great  lamentation. 
"  Rachel  weeping  for  her  children,  and  would 
not  be  comforted,  because  they  were  not." 
The  girl  hung  upon  her,  and  entreated  her, 
with  the  persuasion  of  innumerable  caresses, 
to  cease  from  her  sorrow  and  crying,  but 
without  avail  ;  and  at  last  she  sat  down  again 
beside  the  old  man,  and  they  listened  to  the 


12  JACK  O' BOON. 

mother's  heart  outpouring.  It  was  awful  to 
hear,  for  it  seemed  as  if  it  were  breaking  ; 
and  yet  they  were  too  wretched  to  comfort 
her ;  and  so  they  sat  Hstening  and  gazing 
blindly  into  the  fire.  Occasionally  the  man 
groaned  when  the  wind  rushed  down  the 
chimney,  and  reminded  him  of  the  fierceness 
of  the  storm  upon  the  sea.  The  canvas 
flapped  against  the  wall  with  a  startling  noise  ; 
and  the  sand  came  rattling  down  in  blasts 
and  scattered  over  them.  It  was  indeed  drift- 
ing over  the  little  house,  smothering  the  chim- 
ney more  and  more. 

All  was  making  an  indelible  impression 
upon  the  girl,  despite  the  fact  that  her  cour- 
age was  so  strong.  It  is  true  she  had  been 
brought  up  to  the  lullaby  of  the  sea  ;  but 
since  the  time  when  the  sorrows  of  shipwreck 
could  be  understood,  she  had  been  sheltered 
behind  the  massive  walls  of  her  father's  house, 
where  even  the  plate-glass  windows  were  so 
strong  and  tight,  that,  when  doubled  in  winter, 
only  the  booming  of  a  great  storm  could  be 
heard  distinctly.  But  the  grandeur  of  old 
Margery  O'Doon's  fortitude,  in  her  little  hut 
by  the  sea,  had  won  from  the  girl  an  admira- 
tion all  the  greater  because  of  the  contrast 
between  their  lots  in  life,  and  altogether  apart 
from  her  natural  instinct  of  love  for  her  foster- 
mother. 

Old  Margery's  courage  had  never  been 
known  to  falter,  though  her  sons  had  been 
brought  in,  wrinkled  and  drowned  and  dead, 


JACK  O'DOON.  12 

all  soaked  with  sea-water,  and  laid  at  her  feet. 
She  had  not  shrunk  from  fulfilling  for  them 
the  last  sad  offices,  and  herself  had  shrouded 
them  for  the  grave. 

Knowing  them  both  so  well,  and  having 
seen  that  day  that  their  hearts  were  dying 
of  suspense,  this  girl  had  crossed  the  sands 
through  the  darkness  to  bring  them  evil  tid- 
ings, believing  that  certainty,  even  of  the 
worst,  were  better  than  the  dread  which  was 
maddening  them. 

Jack  O'Doon,  the  last  of  seven  sons  who 
had  gone  down  to  the  sea  in  ships,  was  the 
pride  and  glory  of  his  mother's  heart.  She 
had  called  him  her  scholar,  and  now,  seeing 
his  books,  with  his  name  upon  them,  in  a  bold 
and  clerkly  hand,  arose,  and,  with  a  desperate 
necessity  for  expression,  kissed  them  with 
idolatrous  fervor  again  and  again.  "  My 
boy,  my  boy  I  "  she  cried,  wringing  her  hands, 
"  he  won't  come  back  no  more."  The  girl 
looked  on,  but  her  eyes  were  dry  ;  she  had 
not  realized  it  yet.  She  had  not  had  that 
tuition  of  disappointment  which  at  last  teaches 
us  to  shrink  from  the  most  casual  separation, 
as  we  shrink  from  death  ;  and  so  she  sat  with 
a  mute  and  reverent  sympathy,  following 
Mother  Margery  with  her  eyes,  unconscious 
of  the  strong  contrast  between  herself  and 
her  old  nurse. 

Even  her  clothes  were  so  different  from 
Mother  Margery's.  Her  dress  was  thick  and 
warm,    and    was    cut    with    the    precision   of 


14  JACK  O'DOON. 

fashion  ;  her  rings  were  too  costly  for  her 
years  ;  and  her  hair  was  twisted  upon  a  gold 
pin.  One  was  a  petted  child  ;  the  other  was 
a  brave  old  woman  whose  lot  had  been  severe, 
and  whose  burden  was  very  heavy.  But,  with- 
out knowing  it,  the  girl  had  been  nourished 
with  courage,  as  well  as  milk,  from  her  foster- 
mother's  breast,  and  that  night  she  showed  it, 
for  it  took  a  wonderful  endurance  to  sit  through 
the  dark  hours  till  the  fickle  April  sun  shone 
in  the  morning. 


JACK  O'DOON.  i£ 


CHAPTER  II. 

N  the  early  light  the  girl  returned  to 
her  father's  house,  and,  reaching 
her  room,  threw  herself  upon  the 
bed  and  fell  asleep. 
She  was  the  darling  and  only  child  of  a  re- 
tired sea-captain,  the  offspring  of  his  strangely- 
assorted  marriage  with  the  daughter  of  an 
impecunious  Episcopal  clergyman,  accredited 
with  more  learning  than  money.  The  mother 
died  in  giving  birth  to  the  child.  Usually 
under  such  circumstances,  when  the  father  re- 
covers from  the  shock  of  his  bereavement,  he 
either  detests  the  innocent  cause  of  his  mis- 
fortune, or  else  overwhelms  it  with  more  than 
the  usual  quality  and  quantity  of  affection. 
This  erstwhile  mariner,  Solomon  Blessington, 
better  known  in  those  parts  as  "  The  Captain," 
having  amassed  a  fortune,  had  abandoned  his 
life  upon  the  slippery  wave  at  the  age  of  thirty- 
eight  and  established  himself  on  shore,  full 
of  hope  and  lavish  of  expenditure.  Not  con- 
tent with  giving  his  refined  young  wife  all 
that  money  could  buy  for  her,  he  had  settled 
an  annuity  upon  each  of  her  sisters,  and  been 
altogether  so  bountiful  to  the  parson,  his 
father-in-law,  that  many,  who  could  not  recon- 


1 6  JACK  O'DOON. 

cile  themseh^es  to  this  marriage  of  ••  Beauty 
and  the  Beast,"  had  declared  it  looked  as  if 
the  old  monster  had  bought  the  girl,  out  and 
out. 

But  when  a  woman  has  found  life  cold  and 
poverty  bitter,  she  is  often  content  to  yield 
herself  without  reserve  to  even  violent  passion, 
provided  it  is  tender  and  sheltering  ;  and  I 
am  inclined  to  think  that  the  Captain's  wife 
felt  such  trust  in  his  goodness  as  made  her 
ignore — even  perhaps  fail  to  see — his  coarse- 
ness. 

Taking  the  world  as  it  is,  poverty,  even 
though  ameliorated  by  scholarly  culture,  with- 
out leisure  for  enjoyment,  finds  it  hard  to 
withstand  the  seductions  of  food  and  clothes, 
abundance  of  resources  for  the  gratification 
of  one's  near  kin,  and  general  peace  of  mind  ; 
provided  the  heart  be  free  to  make  the 
sacrifice. 

But  in  this  case,  if  sacrifice  there  had  been, 
doubtless  the  mother's  secret  brooding  over  it 
had  had  much  to  do  with  shaping  the  future 
inclinations  of  the  then  unborn  child,  and 
creating  those  germs  of  a  character  so  out  of 
keeping  with  her  surroundings  ;  for,  having 
inherited  her  father's  energy  and  large-minded 
generosity,  her  mother's  self-abnegation,  and 
her  grandfather's  devotion  to  abstract  study, 
her  inherent  tendencies  continually  rebelled 
against  Aunt  Polly's  severe  discipline  and 
narrow  ideas. 

At  the  end  of  the  first   eight  years  of  her 


JACK  O'DOON.  ly 

life,  which  had  been  passed  under  the  tender 
care  of  Mother  Margery  and  Jack,  the  parson 
saw  fit  to  shuffle  off  this  mortal  coil,  leaving 
the  coil  to  Aunt  Polly  in  the  shape  of  aggres- 
sive fanaticism.  The  Captain,  in  view  of  his 
sister-in-law's  desolation,  had  thought  it  best 
to  transplant  her  to  Blessington  House,  and 
put  her  in  charge  of  his  child. 

Mercy's  little  hands  were  henceforth  washed 
of  the  defilement  of  frog-houses  and  sea- 
fiddlers,  and  a  change  came  over  the  spirit  of 
her  dreams.  She  was  set  down  to  tasks  and 
lessons  day  by  day.  On  Sunday  she  was 
harnessed  without  pity  to  the  religious  tread- 
mill, and  Aunt  Polly,  a  remorseless  prig,  made 
a  prig  of  the  child  as  well. 

The  infant  heart  had  had  veins  of  gold  to 
withstand  the  unbounded  indulgence  of  her 
father,  and  the  purse-proud  arrogance  which 
had  undermined  Aunt  Polly's  common-sense 
on  the  sudden  accession  of  fortune. 

*  *  *  *  * 

When  the  girl  awoke  and  descended  to  the 
breakfast-room,  her  father  was  off  again  to 
town,  and  Aunt  Polly,  a  grim  person  with 
eye-glasses,  sat  deeply  engrossed  in  religious 
literature  ;  marking  sentences  with  a  lead 
pencil  as  she  hurriedly  scanned  the  pages, 
her  thin  lips  pinched  in  the  eagerness  of 
pursuit. 

Mercy  abhorred  traces. 

"  I  have  been  looking  up  a  few  things  for 

2 


iS  JACK  O'DOON. 

Margery,"  said  Aunt  Polly,  pointing  to  a  pile 
of  pamphlets. 

"  I  never  could  see  any  sense  in  that  sort  of 
thing,"  said  Mercy,  ••  and  I  hope  you  won't 
read  them  to  Mother  Margery  to-day.  She 
must  feel  as  if  she  doubted  heaven  and  earth, 
and  wished  she  were  dead  !  " 

"Why,  what  possesses  you?"  cried  Aunt 
Polly,  looking  at  Mercy. 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  the  girl,  putting  a 
lump  of  sugar  into  her  coffee,  "but  it  seems 
to  me  there  can't  be  much  worse  hereafter 
than  tossing  about  on  a  pitch-black  sea,  starv- 
ing and  freezing  and  dying,  and  I  wish  Jack 
had  never  been  born  !  " 

"  Pray,  do  not  speak  in  that  wild  way, 
Mercy,"  said  Aunt  Polly,  putting  up  her  glasses 
to  scrutinize  her  niece. 

"  I  am  not  talking  in  a  wild  way  !  I  can't 
get  along  without  Jack.  He's  mine,  and  1 
want  him,"  Mercy  retorted,  abandoning  her 
breakfast  and  coming  round  to  face  her  aunt, 
who,  with  a  faint  color  in  her  cheeks,  was  still 
perusing  the  tracts. 

"  It  is  a  wild  way,"  she  replied,  without 
looking  up,  "  because,  in  the  first  place,  you 
are  not  treating  me  with  proper  respect,  and 
in  the  second,  it  does  not  become  you  to  be 
rhapsodizing  over  a  person  no  better  than  a 
servant." 

The  girl's  face,  already  vivid  with  emotion, 
turned  scarlet  with  anger.  She  stood  for  a 
moment  silent,  and  then,  leaning  forward,  said 


JACK  O' BOON.  IQ 

with  a  low  emphasis  which  surprised  her  aunt, 
"  Yes,  he  was  my  father's  servant.  He  gave 
his  courage,  and  endurance,  and  youth,  and 
strength,  and  perhaps  his  life,  for  the  wretched 
pay  of  thirty  dollars  a  month  and  found.  And 
he  was  my  slave  too.  A  dumb  slave,  always, 
since  we  played  in  the  old  boat  on  the  beach 
together  !  But  he  was  my  benefactor  as  well  ; 
and  I  loved  him  for  both,  and  I'll  miss  him  for 
both  I "  The  anger  had  suddenly  died  out  of 
her  voice,  and  it  had  sunk  to  so  low  a  key 
that  the  fervor  of  its  tenderness  alone  made  it 
audible. 

Aunt  Polly  had  lived  through  too  much 
poverty,  and  had  struggled  too  long  and  too 
indomitably  to  keep  up  a  vestige  of  family 
dignity,  not  to  feel  grave  annoyance  at  Mercy's 
staunch  loyalty  to  the  O'Doons.  She  glanced 
at  the  girl,  and,  knowing  how  incorruptible 
was  her  devotion,  deemed  it  best  to  let  the 
subject  drop,  and  said,  as  if  to  close  the  inter- 
view, "  Such  things  are  better  forgotten  than 
talked  about;  but  I  shall  certainly  go  to  the 
O'Doons." 

"  Have  a  little  pity,  and  do  not  torment 
them  with  those  things  !  "  cried  the  girl, 
throwing  herself  in  her  aunt's  way,  in  an 
attitude  of  entreaty.  "  Is  there  nothing  in 
your  heart  you  can  give  them  ? — nothing?'''' 

It  was  an  unusual  scene.  Mercy  appeared 
in  a  new  character  before  her  aunt,  who  could 
but  look  at  her  in  wonder,  and  in  sheer  sur- 
prise let  the  tracts  flutter  to  the  ground  ;  for 


20  JACK  O'DOON. 

there  was  such  determination  to  defend 
Mother  Margery  at  any  cost,  that  Mercy 
showed  the  spirit  of  a  young  tigress  over  its 
wounded  dam. 

Aunt  Polly  gazed  at  the  bits  of  paper  on  the 
floor  as  if  she  expected  a  lambent  glimmer  to 
play  round  them  and  proclaim  their  inspira- 
tion ;  Mercy  looked  at  them  as  though  she 
longed  to  put  them  through  a  crucial  test  and 
throw  them  into  the  fire. 

At  length,  with  a  fainting  feeling,  the  girl 
sank  into  a  chair,  and,  covering  her  face  with 
her  handkerchief,  wept  as  if  she  had  lost  the 
dearest  friend  she  possessed  in  the  world,  and 
had  neither  hope  nor  expectation  beyond  what 
had  passed  away. 

Aunt  Polly,  with  a  resolute  intention  of 
having  her  own  way,  stooped  down,  gathered 
up  the  tracts,  and,  looking  at  Mercy  with  a 
slight  commiserating  smile,  left  her.  She, 
poor  child,  was  glad  to  be  alone.  The  hope 
which  had  resisted  the  depression  of  the  night 
now  failed  her  ;  and  the  memory  of  the  re- 
luctance which  the  old  sailors  always  evinced 
at  seeing  their  young  ones  go  out  on  the 
smacks  during  the  gusty  March  weather  came 
grim  and  hard  upon  her,  and  she  made  no 
allowance  for  the  cowardice  of  age  so  sickened 
by  bitter  experience  as  to  forget  the  endurance 
of  youth. 

She  fell  into  one  of  the  "  brown  studies  " 
for  which  Aunt  Polly  was  forever  chiding  her. 
Her  mind  was  tenacious  and  analytical,  and 


J  A  CK  O'DOON.  2  I 

having  nothing  to  interest  it  socially,  philoso- 
phized upon  all  she  observed  and  hoarded 
until  she  could  sit  by  the  sea  in  summer  and 
the  fireside  in  winter,  to  think  out  causes  and 
relations.  It  was  this  habit  of  casuistry  which 
gave  her  so  full  an  insight  into  the  character 
of  the  O'Doons,  mother  and  son.  She  was  a 
problem  to  her  father  and  Aunt  Polly,  who 
could  not  certainly  decide  if  she  were  a  genius 
or  a  fool  ;  since  somebody  claims  that  absent- 
minded  persons  must  be  one  or  the  other. 
Her  father  thought  her  a  genius  ;  Aunt  Polly 
was  not  certain  that  she  was  a  fool. 

It  occurred  to  her  that  the  household  was 
in  ignorance  of  last  night's  expedition,  and 
it  was  just  as  well  it  should  not  become  a 
subject  for  future  comment ;  so  she  left  the 
room  hastily  and  ascended  to  her  chamber. 
There  she  donned  her  hood  and  cloak,  and, 
descending  again,  went  out  and  crossed  the 
garden. 

It  was  a  queer  garden  ;  such  as  are  found 
only  upon  barren  coasts,  and  had  the  appear- 
ance of  much  greater  age  than  the  house, 
which  looked  very  new,  despite  its  proximity 
to  the  sea.  A  straight  path  ran  down  the 
middle,  bordered  with  sea-shells,  which  were 
bleached  and  chalky  ;  their  crannies  filled 
with  dead  weeds.  There  was  also  an  attempt 
at  a  wind-brake  of  stunted  cedars,  but  their 
tops  were  pinched  and  twisted  by  the  gales 
which  had  swept  over  them.  An  old  wall 
girting  it  was  patched  with  bricks  like    the 


22  JACK  O' BOON. 

house  ;  the  stones,  however,  were  spotted 
with  lichens,  and  along  the  top,  repulsive  and 
inhospitable,  was  a  hardened  batter  of  broken 
glass  and  cement.  It  is  doubtful  if  flowers 
could  have  thrived  there,  even  with  the  per- 
suasion of  summer  sunshine. 

Mercy  opened  a  heavy  door  in  the  wall  like 
that  of  a  fortress  and  passed  out  into  an  ob- 
scure road, — obscure  in  the  sense  of  indefinite- 
ness,  although  glaring  and  white  in  the  vivid 
light.  As  smooth  as  marble,  also,  for  no  foot 
had  trodden  it,  save  her  own,  since  it  had 
been  polished  by  the  friction  of  the  hail  blasts 
of  the  previous  night.  There  were  few  traces 
of  vegetation  not  half-buried  in  the  drifts,  and 
the  sand-hills  had  changed  form  so  much  that, 
if  the  girl  had  not  known  her  bearings,  she 
could  not  have  set  out  at  the  rapid  pace  with 
which  she  crossed  the  marsh  ;  for  there  were 
great  lagoons  of  sea-water  which  had  risen 
with  the  tide,  and  lay  fringed  with  dark 
green,  frost-nipped  grass.  Wending  her  way 
between  these  she  reached  the  O'Doons' 
cottage. 

It  looked  smaller  than  ever.  Only  a  corner 
was  left  out  of  the  sand  which  the  old  man 
had  no  heart  to  shovel  away.  The  door  stood 
open,  though  neither  Mother  Margery  nor  the 
fisherman  was  within.  Mercy  suspected  they 
were  searching  for  driftwood,  of  which  there 
was  always  a  great  quantity  cast  up  after  a 
storm.  She  ascended  the  nearest  hillock  and 
cast  her  eyes  along  the  shore.     Far   to   the 


JACK  O'DOON.  23 

north   two    dim   figures    moved    against    the 
white  background. 

Leaving  her  cloak  in  the  cabin,  for  the  day 
was  warm,  she  took  instead  Mother  Margery's 
shawl.  Very  pretty  she  looked  as  she  walked 
away,  although  it  was  hard  to  tell  where  the 
beauty  lay.  It  was  of  such  a  character  that 
one  yielded  to  it,  won  by  the  magnanim.ity  of 
her  smile,  although  she  seldom  smiled.  Her 
nam.e,  Mercy,  described  the  grace  which 
m.odified  the  impetuosity  of  her  nervous  lips, 
and  the  intense  earnestness  of  her  gray  eyes. 
When  she  looked  at  you  with  her  half-absent, 
lingering  gaze,  if  there  were  anything  unclean 
in  your  heart  you  felt  a  desire  to  hide  it  or  to 
turn  away  from  her.  She  hated  meanness  or 
hypocrisy,  and,  without  knowing  it,  had  the 
power  either  of  making  others  afraid  of  her,  or 
of  stimulating  the  best  in  them  to  its  noblest 
effort. 

Mercy's  feet  led  her  to  Mother  Margery, 
but  her  thoughts  were  with  Jack  himself. 
The  hopefulness  of  youth  made  her  brush  a 
tear  away  and  believe  that  he  would  come 
back.  No  one  had  seen  him  die.  Alas  !  for 
her  he  could  never  die.  No  man  could  ever 
take  Jack's  place.  No  peasant  could  be  such 
a  slave,  no  prince  such  a  benefactor.  He  was 
a  hero  to  her,  and  the  courage  of  his  example 
helped  her  to  meet  his  aged  parents  with  a 
smile  as  they  now  approached,  dragging  a 
sled  piled  with  wood. 

It  was  natural  that  Mother  Margery  should 


24 


JACK  O'DOOiV. 


be  pulling  with  steady,  undemonstrative 
strength,  beguiling  the  old  man  into  thinking 
he  was  no  feebler  than  last  year,  and  that  he 
was  now,  as  then,  bearing  the  brunt  of  the 
labor  himself.  That  was  her  way.  Mercy 
also  stepped  behind  him  and  laid  her  hand 
on  the  rope.  It  was  a  repetition  to  her  of  a 
familiar  incident,  for  Jack  and  she  had  often 
done  the  same  thing. 

After  the  first  greeting  they  walked  along 
in  silence  dragging  the  sled,  until  Mercy  said  : 
•'  Aunt  Polly  is  coming  down  to-day,  and  I 
don't  want  you  to  tell  her  that  I  was  here  last 
night.  If  they  had  known  it,  I  should  explain  ; 
as  they  do  not,  it  is  better  as  it  is." 

"  You  always  was  that  headstrong,  it'll  be 
the  death  o'  you,  I'm  afeard,"  said  Mother 
Margery,  doubtfully  ;  but  Mercy  had  no  dis- 
trust of  her,  and  they  relapsed  into  silence. 

The  old  man  wiped  the  sweat  from  his 
brow,  which  showed  that  he  felt  the  toil  as 
well  as  the  April  sunshine.  He  sighed,  too, 
as  if  with  satisfaction.  A  few  years  ago  he 
would  have  drawn  the  sled  alone,  and  now  he 
was  a-weary,  and  so  he  argued  that  it  would 
soon  be  over  and  he  should  follow  the  seven 
sons.  Mother  Margery  looked  at  him  wist- 
fully, for  she  knew  the  meaning  of  all  his 
sighs,  and  she  sighed,  too,  that  he  should  sigh. 

Her  strong  will  and  tenacious  endurance 
could  never  give  up  to  death  while  there  was 
the  faintest  glimmer  of  hope  or  possibility  of 
any  useful  thing  for  her  two  work-worn  hands 


J  A  CK  O'DOON. 


25 


to  do  in  the  world.  The  girl  understood  her 
foster-mother,  and  believed  she  still  hoped  for 
Jack,  while  she  busied  herself  with  the  work 
of  love  before  her.  She  must  hold  up  the  old 
man's  drooping  arms  and  cheer  his  dying 
heart,  for  he  had  neither  hope  nor  desire  for 
it.  He  knew  that  hope  meant  the  agony  of 
winter  shipwreck,  and  he  would  rather  the 
boy  were  dead. 

Socially  considered,  the  captain's  daugh- 
ter made  a  rare  choice  of  friends  ;  it  was 
nevertheless  the  most  natural  of  intimacies, 
since  our  intimates  are  seldom  our  equals. 
There  must  be  room  for  influence  and  expan- 
sion. We  love  best  what  we  admire  or  com- 
miserate. Well-balanced  things  cannot  be 
intense,  since  they  lack  the  pressure  which 
overcomes  scruples  and  causes  devotion.  We 
love  much  what  w^e  admire  and  idealize,  but 
we  love  more  what  we  pity,  sometimes,  even, 
what  we  reluctantly  despise.  For  when  the 
nobler  nature  makes  allowance  for  the 
weaker,  and  pity  takes  the  place  of  disdain, 
then  the  heart  is  full  of  love.  So  Mercy 
pitied  the  O'Doons'  poverty,  their  illiterate 
uncouthness,  and  admired,  without  stint,  their 
courage  and  truthfulness  and  honor. 

They  admired  her,  as  a  being  far  finer  than 
themselves,  while  they  pitied  her  physical 
weakness,  and  this  had  been  since  Mother 
Margery  had  sheltered  the  child  at  her  breast. 
And  Jack,  'her  foster-brother,  had  helped  to 
take  care  of  her  ;  and,  mite  of  a  boy  though 


26  JACK  O'DOON. 

he  was,  how  valiantly  he  had  carried  the  baby 
in  his  arms  through  the  water  to  the  shore 
when  the  tide  had  caught  them  in  a  stranded 
boat,  and  she  had  been  so  frightened,  and 
clung  to  him  with  her  arms  around  his 
neck. 


J  A  CK  O'DOON. 


27 


CHAPTER  III. 


HEY  had  not  yet  reached  the  cabin 
when  their  attention  was  attracted 
to  a  spot  far  up  the  beach  by  the 
movements  of  a  human  figure, which 
hurried  to  and  fro.  Mercy,  although  ex- 
pecting her  aunt,  could  not  suppose  it  was 
she,  since,  upon  closer  observation,  the  figure 
appeared  to  be  that  of  a  man,  accompanied 
by  a  three-legged  skeleton,  with  which  he  was 
vainly  struggling,  and  which,  after  a  final 
effort  at  resistance,  fixed  its  three  legs  solidly 
in  the  sand  in  a  defiant  attitude.  The  sin- 
gularity of  the  combination  distracted  even 
the  O'Doons,  and  while  they  paused  for  a 
moment  to  look  at  it,  the  skeleton  put  on  a 
disproportionate  breastplate,  and  the  man 
stepped  backward,  without  taking  his  eyes  ofif 
the  baleful  figure,  and  stood  contemplating  it. 
The  party  with  the  sled  continued  their  work, 
while  watching  the  movements  of  the  other 
figures. 

Suddenly  Mercy  exclaimed, — 

"  Why,  it  must  be  an  artist  with  one  of  those 
folding-easels  they  carry  around." 

Even  the  old  man  smiled  at  the  grotesque- 
ness  of  their  first  Impression. 


28  JACK  O'DOON. 

Doubtless  curiosity  prompted  them  to 
quicken  their  steps,  and  they  soon  reached  the 
door  of  the  cabin. 

The  artist  had  planted  himself  on  the 
shelving  beach  to  the  southward,  and  was 
reconnoitering  for  a  sketch. 

Now  Mercy,  from  childhood,  had  looked 
upon  pictures  with  admiring  wonder  ;  and  as 
she  turned  the  pages  of  more  than  one  illus- 
trated magazine,  to  be  found  at  proper  inter- 
vals on  the  table  at  Blessington  House,  had 
wondered  how  they  could  have  been  delineated 
in  so  short  a  time,  as  the  vivid  and  rapid 
changes  of  sea  and  sky,  with  which  she  was 
familiar,  would  exact.  Here  she  could  have 
an  elucidation  of  the  mystery. 

"  I'm  going  to  see  what  he  is  doing,"  said 
she,  with  the  simplicity  and  decision  of  one 
who  realized  herself  mistress  of  all  she  sur- 
veyed, even  to  the  artist  trespassing  upon  her 
beach.  So,  letting  go  the  sled-rope,  she  set 
out  briskly  to  investigate  him. 

It  was  very  plain  that  the  girl  was  lacking 
in  both  the  coquetry  and  scruples  which  actu- 
ate most  of  her  sex,  for  she  walked  fearlessly 
toward  the  stranger  until  she  was  quite  close, 
and  then  stood  and  looked  at  him.  I  should 
perhaps  say  they  looked  at  each  other.  His 
smile  of  surprise  and  admiration  was  beyond 
repression,  as  he  took  off  his  hat  as  chival- 
rously as  the  stiff  breeze  permitted  ;  whilst 
she  nodded  her  head,  a  little  nonplussed,  yet 
having  caught  the  contagion  of  his  smile. 


JACK  O'DOON.  29 

"  I  am  afraid  I  am  trespassing,"  said  he, 
proceeding  to  tighten  the  brass  screws  of  the 
easel.  A  wise  precaution,  else  it  would  have 
collapsed  under  the  one-sided  pressure  of  the 
wind. 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Mercy,  taking  a  step 
nearer,  and  posing  unconsciously,  with  her 
head  on  one  side,  and  her  hand  on  her  hip. 
She  was  inimitable,  and  the  artist  longed  to 
place  her,  just  as  she  stood.  The  earnestness 
of  her  gray  eyes,  which  she  brought  to  bear 
upon  him,  induced  him  to  say  what  he  was 
thinking.  People  always  told  Mercy  the  truth. 
Perhaps  it  was  the  amount  of  visible  human 
nature  in  her,  which  made  one  understand 
that  nothing  would  shock  her,  unless  it  were 
wicked  or  brutal  ;  for  she  anticipated  one's 
wishes  to  such  a  surprising  degree  that  one 
often  felt  that  if  he  wished  to  hide  his  thoughts 
from  her  he  must  hide  himself. 

She  understood  at  once  the  young  man's 
eager  smile  and  replied  to  it : 

"  I  see  you  would  like  me  to  stand  just  so, 
as  a  figure  in  your  picture.  I  should  not  mind 
it,  and  if  it  is  a  very  good  picture  my  father 
would  buy  it."  She  thought  he  was  poor  and 
must  needs  sell  his  pictures,  for  his  coat  was 
threadbare. 

"  I  do  not  know  how  I  could  ever  thank 
you,"  replied  the  artist,  much  embarrassed. 

"  Pray  do  not,"  said  she  sententiously. 

•♦  But  I  should  be  so  grateful,"  said  he,  still 
more  puzzled,  opening  his  color-box,  and  look- 


30 


J  A  CK  O'DOON. 


ing  over  his  palette.  It  was  in  good  working 
order,  and  he  was  not  slow  about  beginning. 
Mercy  seemed  disposed  to  be  loquacious. 

"  You  do  not  need  to  be  grateful,"  she  said, 
smiling.  "  You  are  amusing  me,  and  I  am 
obliging  you.     We  are  quits." 

The  artist  was  working  rapidly,  but  his 
thoughts  were  busy  as  well  solving  the  prob- 
lem, how  a  girl,  apparently  eighteen,  speaking 
good  English,  dressed  in  broadcloth,  and 
talking  like  a  philosopher,  could  possibly 
exist  as  one  of  the  fishing  folk  of  Cassandra 
Bay,  and,  at  the  same  time,  be  standing  in 
the  surprising  relation  of  a  model  for  himself. 
He  was  a  bright  fellow,  but  was  more  at  a 
loss  than  he  had  ever  been  in  his  life  be- 
fore. 

Looking  at  Mercy,  he  saw  that  she  was 
absorbed  in  herself,  and  that  a  look  of  pain 
had  followed  the  smile  upon  her  face.  He 
could  not  solve  the  enigma,  yet  he  had  a  dim 
perception  that  he  was  painting  at  her  com- 
mand, rather  than  with  the  exclusive  motive 
of  pleasing  himself. 

First  he  painted  in  roughly  the  red  shawl, 
the  dark  dress,  and  the  seal-skin  hood,  blown 
back  by  the  breeze,  so  that  the  oval  of  her 
face  and  head  were  prettily  defined  ;  but 
when  these  had  been  put  in  en  masse,  he  was 
forced  to  say  :  "  I  am  sorry  that  you  look  so 
sad  ;  can't  you  smile  the  way  you  did  at  first  ?  " 

Most  persons  would  have  laughed  at  the  idea 
of   being    invited    to    smile,    but    Mercy  only 


JACK  O'DOON.  31 

replied,  "  Do  I  really  look  sad  ?  "  making  aa 
effort  to  smile  which  lighted  up  her  helpful 
eyes  with  a  benignant  look,  but  the  smile  was 
very  faint.  It  was  a  thoughtful  face  indeed 
to  be  imposed  upon  the  world  as  that  of  the 
possible  daughter  of  the  hut  under  the  hill. 
The  artist  frowned  a  little,  with  an  uncon- 
scious expression  of  disappointment,  but  the 
face  had  its  effect  upon  him,  as  it  did  upon 
every  one.  It  aroused  him  to  his  noblest 
effort,  and  he  put  it  in  truly,  with  such  a 
sincerity  in  the  gaze  of  the  eyes,  that  they 
were  as  Mercy's  own. 

"  There  !  I  shall  not  touch  it  again,  for  fear 
I  overwork  it.  Will  you  look  at  it  ?  "  said  he, 
after  a  moment,  stepping  back  that  she  might 
come  and  see  it. 

"  Oh,  how  very  pretty  !  "  cried  the  girl,  with 
unfeigned  delight.  **  I  should  not  have 
thought  I  was  half  as  pretty  as  that.  My 
father  will  be  so  pleased  with  it.  Some  day 
you  will  bring  it  to  the  house  and  show  it  to 
him  ?  " 

This  was  said  inquiringly,  but  authorita- 
tively as  well. 

The  figure,  although  so  small,  had  taken  up 
more  time  than  either  Mercy  or  the  artist 
had  realized.  He  had  been  unconscious  of 
the  flight  of  time  because  interested  in  his 
work,  and  she,  having  lapsed  into  one  of  her 
brown  studies,  had  been  equally  oblivious. 
He  now  took  the  opportunity  of  scrutinizing 
her  face. 


32  JACK  O'DOOM. 

*'  I  should  be  glad  to  think  I  was  like 
that,"  she  said  earnestly,  "  and  it  will  look 
very  picturesque  with  Mother  Margery's 
cottage  in  the  distance  on  one  side,  and  the 
wide  green  sea  on  the  other,  and  those  ragged 
sand  cliffs  to  help  out  the  foreground.  I  have 
often  thought  I  should  like  to  paint.  Does  it 
take  long  to  learn  ?  " 

"  That  depends,"  said  he  slowly.  "  They 
say  'geniuses  are  plodders,'  and  that  adage 
probably  grows  out  of  the  fact  that  those  who 
love  anything  fervently  are  apt  to  give  their 
time,  and  strength,  and  patience  toward  doing 
it  well."  The  spirit  of  this  reply  was  evident 
in  the  work  before  her,  which  showed  the 
finish  and  facility  of  a  devoted  hand. 

Just  at  that  moment,  lifting  her  eyes,  Mercy 
caught  sight  of  Aunt  Polly  fluttering  across 
the  dunes.  Her  figure  was  unmistakable, 
for  she  despised  the  meanness  of  the  present 
style  and  still  sported  the  full  skirts  and 
round  waists  of  twenty  years  ago  ;  and  the 
breeze  was  spreading,  like  wide  wings,  the  al- 
batross-gray breadths  of  her  gown,  as  she 
swooped  down  from  the  sand-hills  upon  the 
helpless  cot  of  the  O'Doons. 

"  I  must  go  !  "  exclaimed  Mercy  suddenly, 
*'  for  I  see  Aunt  Polly  coming  over  the  hill." 

Without  farther  explanation,  she  walked  off 
in  the  direction  of  the  cabin,  somewhat  vain- 
glorious at  having  had  her  portrait  so  flatter- 
ingly painted,  for  she  never  doubted  her  future 
possession  of  it.     Had   she  been  older,  there 


J  A  CK  O'DOON.  ^^ 

would  also  have  mingled  with  her  feelings  a 
pleasant  satisfaction  in  knowing  there  was 
being  preserved  something  of  the  freshness 
and  picturesqueness  of  her  youth.  The  artist 
looked  after  her  rather  dazed. 

"  Well  !  That  is  an  episode  !  "  he  ex- 
claimed aloud,  laughing  to  himself.  "  By  Jove  ! 
It's  enormous."  The  adjective  referred  to 
the  success  of  the  sketch.  "Immense!"  he 
continued,  muttering  from  time  to  time,  as 
he  walked  back  and  forth,  to  estimate  the 
values  of  the  sea  and  sand  he  was  introduc- 
ing as  accessories.  "  Wants  me  to  show  it 
to  papa,  does  she  !  And  what  might  papa 
say  if  he  knew  that  his  strong-minded  daugh- 
ter, with  gushing  simplicity,  had  been  posing 
for  a  vagabond  artist,  like  yours  humbly, 
Algernon  Abercrombie — otherwise  Algie,  and 
sometimes  at  small  pay,  as  A  A.  Roman  capi- 
tals in  monogram."  There  was  a  touch  of 
satire  in  the  young  man's  voice  as  he  drew 
the  monogram  in  the  sand  with  the  end  of 
a  reed  cane  he  had  used  for  a  mahl-stick. 
"And  what'U'Old  Arthur'  have  to  say  for 
you,  my  pretty  sea-maiden  ?  "  continued  he, 
after  an  industrious  interval.  "  Old  Arthur  " 
was  the  studio-name  of  a  well-known  marine 
painter  of  his  acquaintance.  "  By  Jove,  what 
a  catch  !  As  g-ood  fish  in  the  sea  as  ever 
came  out  !     I  always  said  so  !  " 

He  picked  up  a  stubby  stick,  and,  unfolding 
it  into  an  uncomfortable  three-legged   stool, 
walked  off  with  it,  and  shoved  it  into  the  sand 
3 


34  J^  (^^  O'DOON. 

at  a  good  and  sufficient  distance  ;  and,  set- 
tling himself  upon  it,  lighted  a  cigarette  and 
proceeded  to  gaze  admiringly  at  the  picture, 
which  was  beyond  dispute  one  of  those  rare 
successes  of  open-air  effect,  which,  being 
painted  under  a  vivid  impression  of  the  scene, 
make  an  appealing  success.  "Won't  they 
smile,  when  she  grows  a  little  larger  !  "  he 
continued,  flourishing  the  cane  vaguely  to 
express  a  vast  enlargement  of  the  canvas  ; 
and,  having  finished  his  cigarette,  he  fell  to 
whistling  "  Beautiful  Isle  of  the  Sea,"  to  the 
accompaniment  of  various  admiring  attitudes 
and  exclamations.  "  And  fair  are  the  smiles 
of  thy  daughters." 

Meantime  Mercy,  oblivious  of  the  comedy 
he  was  performing  solo,  sat  in  a  corner  of  the 
O'Doons'  cabin,  wrapped  in  frowning  silence. 
Aunt  Polly  was  holding  forth,  after  having 
read  aloud  various  tracts  ;  old  O'Doon  sub- 
mitting passively,  as  devoid  of  resistance  as 
of  emotion,  for  the  energy  of  the  man  was 
gone  from  within  him,  and  it  is  hardly  pos- 
sible to  think  he  could  have  been  aroused, 
even  to  the  interest  of  saving  his  own  soul. 

When  she  paused,  the  lull  of  the  silence  re- 
called him,  as  any  change  will  upon  occasion, 
and  he  replied  drily:  ♦'  I  don't  dispute  ez  the 
man  war  a-tellin'  the  truth  ez  fur  ez  his  ex- 
perience tuk  him,  but  my  opinion  alius  war 
that  it  ain't  no  use  a-takin'  a  man's  convictions 
furevidence,  whar  they  ain't  give  in  cole  blood. 
When  a  man's  a-dyin'   o'  shipwreck,  or  any- 


J  A  CK  O'DOON.  25 

thin'  else,  he'll  promise  the  good  Lord  any- 
thin'  he's  a  mind  to  ;  but  it  ain't  no  use  be- 
lievin'  him,  tell  you  sees  how  he  gits  along 
when  he's  prosp'rous.  Prosperity's  bin  the 
devil  ter  catch  many  a  poor  man's  soul  afore 
t-^-day.  Now  that's  one  thing  I  alius  ad- 
mired 'bout'n  my  boy  Jack.  He  tuk  luck 
with  a  pow'ful  steady  head  ;  en  my  'pinion  is 
that  them's  the  sort  what's  born  to  a  savin' 
grace." 

This  speech  was  utterly  heterodox  to  Aunt 
Polly,  who  listened  with  an  expression  of  dis- 
gust modified  with  commiseration. 

"  Surely  you  can't  believe  that  your  boy 
John  was  born  to  go  to  heaven  without  a  creed, 
and  without  even  being  baptized,  or  so  much 
as  repenting  of  his  sins  ?  "  said  Aunt  Polly 
aghast. 

"  Jack  alius  war  that  good,  marm.  I've  tole 
his  mother  afore  to-day,  that  he  war  too  good 
to  live  ;  "  said  the  old  man  with  conviction. 

Aunt  Polly  looked  at  him  with  a  dogmatic 
glitter  in  her  pale  blue  eyes. 

"  Madam,"  said  O'Doon  humbly,  "I  ain't  a- 
speakin'  fur  myself.  I  ain't  got  no  goodness 
ter  speak  on,  leastways  none  in  partic'lar. 
I  war  a-speakin'  fur  Jack,"  he  added  apolo- 
getically. The  pathetic  leaving  of  himself  en- 
tirely outside  of  all  personal  claim  of  merit 
reminded  Mercy  of  the  contrast  between  the 
Pharisee  and  the  Publican  ;  but  she  managed 
to  restrain  herself  from  interfering,  and  looked 
at  her  aunt,  awaiting  her  reply. 


36  JACK  O'DOON. 

Now,  if  sincerity  atones  for  unfortunate  re- 
sults, Aunt  Polly's  good  intentions  deserve  the 
shelter  of  a  very  broad  mantle  of  charity. 

"  But  don't  you  think  that  at  your  age  it's 
time  you  were  talking  about  yourself  ?  "  re- 
plied Aunt  Polly. 

"I  can't  say  ez  how  I  see  any  particular 
good  in  it,  marm,"  replied  O'Doon,  with  doubt 
and  indifference. 

"  It  is  not  only  good,  but  it  is  necessary," 
cried  the  lady,  edging  her  chair  closer  to  his, 
and  adding,  with  ecclesiastical  severity,  "  ex- 
cept ye  believe,  ye  shall  all  likewise  perish." 

"  Believe  what  ?  " 

Aunt  Polly  paused  ere  she  replied.  At 
length  she  said,  "  That  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ 
came  into  the  world  to  save  sinners,  of  whom 
you  are  the  chief." 

"Well,  I  don't  know  about  subscribin'  to 
that  offhan',  fur  there's  been  times  when  I've 
seed  men  what  I  had  my  doubts  about  bein' 
wusuner.  There  ain't  nuthin,  marm,  like  a 
little  honest  considerashun  afore  subscribin' to 
sich  like.  There  ain't  no  use  fur  a  man  to  set 
a  less  'pinion  on  hisself  than  he's  got.  It 
alius  'peared  to  me  to  be  lackin'  in  self-respec'. 
I  ain't  never  killed  nobody,  leastways  not  ez  I 
knows  on  ;  I  ain't  never  stole,  never  ;  en  I 
ain't  had  much  'casion  ter  lie  to  nobody,  fur 
lyin'  is  mostways  the  fruits  of  bein'  afeared  ; 
an'  I  can't  say  ez  how  I'm  much  afeared, 
'ceptin'  o'  the  sea,  and  there  ain't  no  use  o' 
lyin'  to  the  sea,  fur  it  won't  do  no  good  ;  nor 


J  A  CK  O'DOON.  ^*i 

to  the  Lord  neither,  he's  sort  o'  apt  to  fin'  us 
out ;  so  I  reckon  I  ain't  a  mind  to  subscribe 
to  them  sentiments,  marm." 

After  a  pause  the  old  man  added:  "I  ain't 
a-matcin'  no  comments  on  nobody  else's  re- 
ligion, but  all  the  same  I  sort  o*  feel  ez  ef  I 
would  be  some  sort  o'  a  hypercrite  ef  I  set  up 
ter  be  better'n  I  be." 

Aunt  Polly  heaved  a  disappointed  sigh. 
Clearly  she  must  shift  her  tack',  if  she  hoped 
to  approach  the  barren  land  of  O'Doon'ssterile 
imagination.  She  looked  blankly  before  her, 
as  if  she  were  considering  the  possibilities  of 
the  case,  and  then  arose,  and  bade  the  O'Doons 
good-bye,  saying  to  the  old  man,  as  she  shook 
hands  with  him,  "  I  hope  you  will  give  this  little 
talk  some  serious  consideration,"  and  then, 
— it  was  her  way, — having  administered  her 
admonition,  she  took  a  blue  flannel  shirt  out 
of  a  hand-basket  and  gave  it  to  him  and  de- 
parted. The  kindness  of  the  act,  being  an 
expression  of  good  feeling  and  sympathy,  prob- 
ably did  more  to  impress  her  homily  than  any 
of  the  tracts  she  had  applied  with  unction. 
The  generosity  of  a  silent  example  would  have 
done  more  and  not  have  aroused  the  resist- 
ance of  argument. 

However,  he  looked  at  the  shirt  critically, 
felt  the  thickness  of  the  flannel,  and,  after  let- 
ting it  lie  on  his  knee  for  a  while,  gave  it  to 
Mother  Margery  to  put  away  in  the  white 
cupboard. 

Mercy  was  still  sitting  by  the  fire  ;  not  hav- 


^8  J  A  CK  O'DOON. 

ing  accompanied  her  aunt.  It  mattered  very 
little,  for  the  O'Doons'  cottage  stood  as  a  kind 
of  outpost  between  Blessington  House  and  the 
sea,  and  the  girl  was  subject  to  erratic  wan- 
derings between  the  two. 

"Sometimes  I  don't  know  whether  I've  got 
any  religion  or  not,"  said  Mercy,  in  a  tone  of 
uncertainty.  "  I  don't  think  I  quite  like  the 
idea  of  talking  love  to  God  ;  but  I  believe  a 
good  deal." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  ez  I  believe  very 
much,"  said  O'Doon,  looking  at  the  fire,  "but 
I  ain't  got  no  notion  o'  tryin'  to  fool  the  good 
Lord  with  no  sort  o'  humbug.  Not  ez  I  mean 
ter  p'int  the  idee  that  your  Aunt  Polly  is  the 
like  o'  that ;  but  them's  my  notions  all  the 
same.  But  I  respec's  other  folks's  senti- 
ments," he  added  politely,  casting  his  eye 
toward  the  blue  shirt. 

"Well,  my  notion,"  spoke  up  Mother 
Margery,  who  entered  into  the  argument  for 
the  first  time,  "  my  notion  is,  that  some  folks 
talks,  it's  natur'  to  'em,  and  some  folks  believes, 
without  talkin'  much  ;  and  some  folks  ivorks. 
Jes'  does  what  they  finds  to  do  and  don't 
make  no  fuss  about  it.  And  some  folks  is  got 
a  mixture  o'  all  sorts.  Jes*  accordin'  to  the 
natur'  of  'em  ;  an'  every  one  of  us,  when  we're 
sort  o'  took  by  surprise,  is  apt  to  do  something 
different  from  what  we  ever  'spected  o'  our- 
selves. I've  done  things  afore  to-day  that 
was  that  good  they's  surprised  myself !  " 

This  was  such  a  long  speech   for  Mother 


J  A  CA'  O'DOON.  -jg 

Margery  that  her  Hsteners   looked   at  her  in 
wonder. 

The  memory  of  many  noble  acts  stirred  in 
the  old  man's  mind,  and  he  replied  with  a 
rough  chivalry  that  touched  Mercy  to  the 
h^art,  "Well,  it  ain't  surprised  nobody  else, 
I'll  be  bound!" 


40  J  A  CK  O'DOON 


CHAPTER  IV. 

HE  scene  had  changed  with  the  fall 
of  the  tide.  The  mirror-like  pools 
were  gone  from  the  marshes,  and 
Mercy  followed  a  dank  foot-path 
which  meandered  uninvitingly  through  them. 

Her  life,  hitherto  monotonous,  had  suddenly 
become  thrilling  ;  and  she  lived  from  day  to 
day  in  a  fever  of  anxiety. 

When  with  others,  she  resolutely  resisted 
their  depression,  endeavoring  to  encourage 
them  as  well  ;  but  when  alone,  a  sickening 
dread  made  her  heart  sink. 

Upon  entering  the  house  her  presence  was 
acknowledged  by  a  subdued  rattling  of  chairs, 
and  after  a  short  interval  a  little  dark  man 
came  in  at  the  door,  and  crossed  the  padded 
carpet  to  a  dumb-waiter  beside  the  chimney. 
Very  quietly  and  quickly  he  moved  in  his  list 
slippers,  and  after  a  few  moments  Aunt  Polly 
and  Mercy  sat  down  at  the  table. 

It  would  take  a  long  time  to  tell  the  history 
of  each  inmate  of  the  Captain's  house  ;  though 
they  were  all  people  with  histories,  accessory 
to  the  central  figure,  whom  all  hated,  feared, 
loved,  would  even  have  died  for,  so  violent 
and  contrary  were  his  characteristics. 


JACK  O'DOON.  41 

The  Captain  was  a  man  at  once  fickle  and 
steadfast.  When  he  gave  way  to  his  un- 
governable temper,  as  he  often  did,  it  was 
with  the  overpowering  fury  of  the  m.oment ; 
an  hour  later  he  would  go  to  the  ends  of  the 
earth  to  make  amends.  Beneath  it  was  a 
solid  rock  of  steadfast  prejudice  which  noth- 
ing could  unsettle.  Casual  acquaintances 
often  feared  or  hated  him,  knowing  only  the 
surface  of  the  man  ;  but  the  helpless  or  poor, 
who  sought  shelter  in  his  strength,  loved  him 
so  they  would  have  died  for  him,  if  need  be. 

His  "  curios,"  as  those  w^ho  hated  him 
called  the  collection  of  beast,  bird,  and  human- 
kind which  inhabited  Blessington  House, 
were  extraordinary,  and  had  been  picked  up 
and  brought  hither  from  Heaven  knows 
where. 

There  was  Antonio,  who  was  said  to  have 
come  with  Columbus,  and  who  looked  like  a 
mummy,  stoop-shouldered  and  bandy-legged. 
He  had  figured  in  many  high  travesties  at 
Blessington  House,  when  the  Captain  wrought 
himself  to  fury  and  repented  again  with 
farcical  suddenness  and  contrition. 

Antonio,  having  sailed  the  wide  seas  as 
steward  of  the  Captain's  brig,  in  the  natural 
order  of  things  had  settled  down  on  shore 
with  him  when  luck  and  oysters  had  made 
the  master  rich.  He  was  a  Roman  Catholic, 
whom  Aunt  Polly  had  vainly  endeavored  to 
convert  from  the  sin  and  folly  of  his  idolatry. 
But  her  fervor   had  slowly  subsided,  and  she 


42  J  A  CK  O'DOON. 

had  concluded  that  his  devotion  must  indeed 
be  perfunctory,  since  he  held  to  worshipping  a 
storm-battered  image  of  the  "  Blessed  Lady," 
and  a  crucifix  without  arms  and  with  a 
broken  nose.  There  was  a  pathetic  history 
pertaining  to  these  strange  idols,  which  her 
Episcopalian  orthodoxy  could  never  have 
understood,  although  Mercy  and  the  Captain 
ever  treated  the  little  mystery  with  a  lenient 
respect  ;  for  they  saw  that,  in  the  poetic  fancy 
of  the  Italian,  each  had  a  meaning.  He,  also, 
was  one  of  Mercy's  phenomenal  coadjutors 
and  humble  friends.  Whatever  she  thought, 
wished,  or  said,  he  swore  by,  with  unquestion- 
ing faith  and  a  tropical  ardor  which  neither 
age  nor  climate  had  cooled. 

That  morning,  having  served  the  omelette 
and  broiled  ham,  he  had  just  settled  himself 
for  support  against  the  back  of  her  chair 
(which  act,  of  late  years,  had  showed  infirm- 
ity), when  there  were  demonstrations  of  impa- 
tience at  the  door.  "  Antonio,  do  let  Sailor 
come  in  I  "  exclaimed  Mercy,  looking  around. 
Antonio  did  as  he  was  bid,  and  immediately, 
when  the  door  was  opened,  in  rushed  a 
hideous  dog,  whisking  his  tail  and  bounding 
from  one  lady  to  the  other. 

"  Oh,  you  dreadful  creature,  do  get  away  !  " 
cried  Aunt  Polly,  flinging  up  her  arms.  "  He 
never  will  learn  that   I   can't   endure  a  dog. 


never  ! 


Now    Aunt    Polly    had    made    this    speech 
every  day  since  she  had   first  come  to  Bless- 


J  A  CK  O'DOON. 


43 


ing-ton  House,  ten  years  or  more  ago. 
♦'  Sailor "  was  a  veteran,  an  Irish  poodle,  ot 
the  brownest,  kinkiest,  most  yellow-eyed 
variety,  and  was  as  jolly  an  old  tar  as  ever  a 
dog  could  be.  He  was  devoted  to  his  master, 
but  with  such  inconstancy  that,  in  the  absence 
of  the  master,  he  was  satisfied  with  his  mas- 
ter's daughter.  He  sat  on  his  haunches,  with 
his  head  as  high  as  the  table,  and  ate  small 
scraps  of  bread  and  butter  which  Mercy 
placed  on  his  nose,  and  which,  with  rickety 
wistfulness,  he  tossed,  and  caught  occasion- 
ally in  his  mouth.  Perhaps  this  trick  vexed 
him  ;  at  any  rate  he  barked  so  vehemently  at 
last  that  Mercy  sent  Antonio  for  a  bone. 

There  were  two  other  of  the  Captain's  odd- 
ities below.  '*  Below  "  meant  the  kitchen,  for 
the  house  was  run  like  a  ship  ashore,  and 
things  went  by  nautical  names. 

Bill  Junk  was  the  cook,  and  had  a  voice 
like  thunder,  and  sang  sea-songs  and  love- 
ditties  when  not  otherwise  engaged.  At  other 
times  he  could  be  heard  humming,  humming, 
as  monotonously  as  the  sea  itself. 

Luncheon  was  a  silent  affair,  and  when  it 
was  finished  Mercy  and  her  aunt  returned  to 
the  fireside.  Aunt  Polly's  arm  moved  monot- 
onously as  she  stitched  upon  another  blue 
shirt,  and  her  mind  was  equally  busy  com- 
posing homilies.  Mercy  was  knitting.  It 
would  be  difficult  to  tell  how  many  comforters 
she  knit,  as,  hour  by  hour,  through  the  long 
winter  days,  her  ivory  needles  moved  in  and 


44  J"^  CK  O'DOON. 

out,  while  her  thoughts  wandered  about  the 
world. 

At  half-past  six  there  was  a  commotion 
below.  The  great  gate  had  opened  and  shut, 
and  a  heavy  tread  had  sounded  upon  the 
shell  drive.  Mercy  ran  to  the  window.  She 
heard  her  father's  voice  shouting  :  <«  Hold  her 
steady  !  " 

Any  locomotive  animal  was  her  in  the  Cap- 
tain's vocabulary,  so  that  there  was  no  incon- 
gruity to  him  in  applying  that  pronoun  to  the 
large  and  heavy-stepping  Percheron  gelding 
which,  too  fat  for  its  own  comfort,  was  kept  to 
transport  the  gig  across  the  sands  to  the 
nearest  station. 

When  the  master  arrived,  every  one  must 
needs  know  it.  He  was  not  secretive.  He 
despised  secrecy,  as  he  thought  he  hated  the 
devil,  and  was  forever  talking  about  both. 
Mercy  heard  him  saying,  "  What  the  devil 
are  you  fellows  about,  that  you  can't  never  be 
a-lookin'  out  fur  me  when  I  come  home. 
Here  !  I've  been  two  mortal  hours  a-crossin' 
them  cussed  sands  in  the  cold,  till  my  fingers 
is  nigh  onto  froze,  an'  won't  none  o*  you  take 
the  trouble  to  see  I've  got  my  gloves  to  start 
with,  en  you — all  o'  you  with  nuthin'  to  do 
but  warm  yer  lazy  shins  afore  the  fire.  'Fore 
the  Lord,  I'll  be  damned  if  I  ain't  wore  out  with 
no  sort  of  attention  !  " 

The  large  horse,  with  Italian  appreciation 
of  the  feminine  pronoun,  neighed  with  satis- 
faction as    he    turned    his    head    toward    the 


JACK  O'DOON.  42 

Stable,  nearly  whisking  Splugen  out  of  the 
gig  with  a  sweep  of  his  long  tail  ;  while  the 
Captain,  blowing  like  a  monsoon,  entered  the 
house  and  swaggered  upstairs. 

«'  Well,  Mercy,"  said  he,  "  you  see  me  I 
I've  got  back,  and  I  ain't  got  no  news  neither, 
an'  I  wish  ter  the  Lord  you'd  teach  them  boys 
some  sort  o'  manners,  fur  they  ain't  got  none. 
Here,  pull  off  them  shoes  o'  mine  !  I  must  be 
gittin'  the  rheumatiz  !  It's  nothin'  but  this 
damned  frosty  air  what's  a-ruinin'  my  consti- 
tution. If  it  wa'n't  that  I'm  sort  o'  comfort- 
able here,  I'd  clear  out  !  I  alius  knowed  that 
no  man  but  jus'  such  a  idjut  ez  me  would 
put  a  sight  o'  money  in  a  pile  o'  brick  whar  the 
wind's  that  bleak  the  runtiest  ole  pitch  pine 
dasn't  grow  high  enough  to  hide  nothin'.  I 
used  ter  tell  yer  ma  that,  but  she  war  that  tied 
down  to  these  here  sand-hills  that  she  couldn't 
b'lieve  nothing  tell  she  caught  her  death  o' 
cole,  en  'twas  too  late  !  " 

The  Captain's  breath  being  exhausted,  his 
thoughts  wandered  in  silence  to  the  sodless, 
wind-swept  graveyard,  where  only  wild  vines 
ventured,  creeping  like  criminals. 

"  Your  toes  are  cold  !  "  said  Mercy  sym- 
pathetically, taking  her  father's  slippers  off 
again  and  feeling  the  ends  of  his  socks. 

"  Cold  !  "  exclaimed  the  Captain,  as  if  she 
had  doubted  his  veracity,  "  I  should  think 
they  was  cold.     Damned  cold  !  " 

Those  who  have  no  knowledge  of  Scandi- 
navian mythology  and  its  purgatorial  regions 


46  J  A  CK  O'DOON. 

rifted  with  hail-blasted  gulches  of  perpetual 
ice  may  not  be  able  to  understand  how  his 
feet  were  damned  and  cold  at  once.  Such, 
however,  by  the  will  of  Odin,  is  possible. 

However,  we  must  take  the  rough  old 
skipper  as  we  find  him,  without  marginal 
notes,  and  judge  him  only  by  his  intentions 
and  actions,  which  were  usually  generous  if 
vehement. 

Mercy  sat  down  on  the  floor  and  took  pos- 
session of  her  father's  extremities  as  if  they 
had  been  two  brawny  babies,  and  proceeded 
to  rub  them.  The  Captain  thawed  under 
sympathy  and  devoured  it  like  pap,  so  that 
in  a  few  moments  the  warmth  of  the  fire 
after  the  breezy  drive,  the  luxurious  softness  of 
the  cushioned  chair,  and  the  gentle  rubbing 
which  had  wittingly  diminished  to  a  very 
comforting  and  drowsy  titillation,  caused  him 
to  forget  his  good  behavior  and  fall  asleep. 

He  slept  with  such  satisfaction,  that  Mercy 
enjoyed  it  out  of  sympathy,  although  it  was  of 
that  quality  of  repose  which  is  punctuated  by 
blasts  both  loud  and  shrill,  echoing  from  wall 
to  wall,  like  the  blare  of  a  bugle. 

This  great  rough  monster,  for  so  he  might 
be  considered  if  transported  into  the  midst  of 
a  tea-party  of  fashionable  women,  was  some- 
thing about  as  guileless  as  a  high-tempered, 
frolicksome,  good-natured,  generous  and  re- 
pentant baby  would  be, — looked  at  through 
a  magnifying-glass,  and  spiritually  enlarged  as 
well." 


J  A  CK  O'DOON.  4y 

Mercy  knew  her  father  like  a  book  ;  she 
could  as  freely  open  his  heart  and  read  it  ;  and, 
when  she  was  satisfied  with  the  result  of  her 
manipulation,  she  arose  from  the  floor,  and, 
settling  herself  comfortably  in  a  chair,  re 
sumed  her  knitting. 

Aunt  Polly  having  retired  to  her  room, 
Mercy  spent  half  an  hour  alone  with  her  un- 
conscious parent,  until  a  snore  too  great  for 
utterance  awoke  the  Captain  with  a  shudder. 
After  looking  around,  rubbing  his  eyes,  and 
yawning,  the  surprised  exclamation  escaped 
him,  "  Why,  I  must  ha'  been  asleep  ! " 

"  Yes,"  said  Mercy,  "  it  souiided  so.  You 
forget  walls  have  ears  !  Do  you  know  I  had 
the  funniest  time  to-day." 

"  How's  that  ? "  inquired  the  Captain, 
wide  awake  at  once,  with  his  mind  quite  re- 
freshed. 

"  Why,   I   had    my   portrait   painted." 

"  By  Jiminy  !  "  The  Captain  was  awake 
in  earnest.     "  Who  the  devil's  been  here  ?  " 

"  Nobody's  been  here  ;  I've  been  some- 
where." 

Now  there's  no  curiosity  equal  to  that  of  a 
big,  blustering,  good-natured  man,  who  pro- 
fesses to  despise  the  failings  of  the  weaker 
sex. 

•'  Where  have  you  been  ?  " 

"  Down  to  Mother  Margery's." 

"  Down  to  Mother  Margery's  to  have  your 
portrait  painted  !  You  may  tell  that  to  the 
marines,  an*  give  'em  my  love." 


48  J  A  CK  O'DOON. 

"  Oh,  he  wouldn't  want  your  love,  he's  a 
handsome  young  man." 

"  A  handsome  young  man,  painting  por- 
traits at  Mother  Margery's  !  What  the  devil 
do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  mean  what  I  say.  I  went  to  Mother 
Margery's  ;  a  handsome  young  man  was 
there  ;  I  walked  up  to  him,  and  he  looked  at 
me,  and  then  he  painted  my  portrait,  and 
I  said,  'Thank  'e,  sir,'  like  any  good  girl, 
and  came  away." 

"Some  ragged  vagabond  peddling  sign- 
boards for  a  living,  I'll  be  bound," — with  dis- 
gust. 

"Yes,"  doubtfully  from  Mercy,  "made  a 
good  one  of  me,  and  I  thought  'twould  suit 
you  for  your  shop,"  indicating,  with  a  nod,  the 
other  side  of  the  house  ;  "  and  so  I  said  to  him, 
'  fetch  it  along,'  and  perhaps  he  will." 

"  What  in  creation  did  you  do  that  for  .''  " 

"  So  you'd  have  a  portrait  of  me  when  you 
and  Aunt  Polly  send  me  away  to  be  a  fine 
lady."     This  last  in  rather  a  quavering  voice. 

The  father  bristled  ai  once.  "  Who  said  I 
was  goin'  to  send   you  away  ?  " 

"Well,  you  just  needn't,  I  can  tell  you,  for 
I'll  come  home,  if  I  have  to  walk  ;  and  you 
can  buy  the  young  man's  picture  too.  It's 
beautiful,  and  just  like  me,  and  I  want  it." 

"Sounds  like  it.  What's  your  young  man's 
name  ?  " 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  He's  very  well 
behaved,  and  he's  got  red  hair." 


J  A  CK  O'DOON.  4Q 

"  Red  hair  !  Good  Lord  I  "  with  an  expres- 
sion of  disgust.  "You  may  tell  him  to  send 
along  his  pictur',  and  stay  at  home  hisself. 
Damn  a  fellow  with  red  hair  !  " 

"  Oh,  he's  quite  lovely,  I  assure  you,"  said 
Mercy  with  an  enigmatical  smile. 

«'  Some  little  jackanapes  from  Richmond  I'll 
be  bound,  dead-beat  I  bet,  to  be  huntin'  a 
iivin'  at  Cassandra  Bay,  less'n  he  can  live  off'n 
clams  and  seaweed." 

"  I  think  he  may  be  poor  enough.  Indeed 
I  don't  doubt  it,  for  his  coat  was  threadbare." 

♦'  Hungry  did  ye  say  ?  "  with  a  manner  at 
once  softened. 

*'  He  might  be,"  said  Mercy  slyly. 

"  Why  didn't  you  bring  him  up  ?  Bring  him 
up  by  all  means,  and  give  him  something  to 
eat." 

"  How  could  I  when  he's  got  red  hair  ?  " 

"  We  can't  allow  a  man  to  starve  outside 
our  very  gate  !  "  cried  the  Captain  excitedly, 
with  an  oratorical  gesture.  "  Look  out  and 
see  if  he  is  there  I  " 

"  Why,  father,  how  you  let  your  imagina- 
tion run  away  with  you  !  It's  pitch-dark  out 
of  doors.  He  was  a  real  gentleman,  with  the 
most  elegant  manners  and  a  threadbare 
coat." 

"  Painting  sign-posts  for  a  living  !  "  inter- 
rupted the  Captain,  chuckling  contemptuously. 

"  Now,  listen  to  me  ;  I  said  he  painted  7)te  j 
I'm  not  a  post." 

'•  No  ;  but  let  me  hear  about  it." 
4 


^O  JACK  O'DOON. 

"  Well,  this  was  the  way.  Old  Ned  and 
Mother  Margery  were  dragging  driftwood  on 
the  beach " 

"  There  it  is  again,"  interrupted  the  Cap- 
tain, "  I  told  them  confounded  old  fools  to 
let  the  wood  alone,  and  I'd  have  it  draw'd 
for  'em  ! " 

•'  Well,  all  the  same,  they  were  hauling  on 
the  old  sled,  and  I  went  to  help  haul  too." 

"  By  Jiminy,  hear  that  !  " 

"  And  when  we  got  to  the  door,  I  saw  a 
man  on  the  beach  with  the  funniest  easel,  and 
I  made  it  my  business  to  see  what  he  was  up 
to.  When  I  got  nearly  to  him  I  found  he 
was  painting  a  picture  of  Mother  Margery's 
cottage  and  the  sea  ;  and  I  knew  by  the  way 
he  looked  at  me  that  he  wanted  to  put  me  in 
it." 

"  Damned  familiar." 

"Why,  no  ;  I  thought  it  was  splendid,  and 
I  told  him  so.  So  he  painted  me  in,  and  it's 
beautiful  !  " 

"  Humph  !  "  Long  silence,  broken  by  Mercy, 
persuasively, — 

"  And  I  knew  that  you  would   like  a  nice 
picture  of  me,  and   so   I  told  him  to  be  sure . 
and  bring  it  here  for  you  to  buy." 

"  Who  pays  for  all  the  things  we  buy,  you 
or  me  ?  " 

"  I  could  if  you'd  give  me  the  money." 

"Yes,  there's  no  doubt  you  could."  This 
was  said  in  a  tone  intended  to  be  sarcastic  ; 
but  satire  was  not  the  Captain's  forte,  so  he 


JACK  O'DOON.  ^I 

relapsed  into  what  he  wished  should  be  inter- 
preted as  surly  silence  ;  but  even  that  was  so 
easily  misunderstood  that  Mercy  said  quite 
cajolingly  :  "Say,  now,  you  will  buy  it,  won't 
you  ?  Promise  me  you  will,  and  " — thought- 
fully—" ni  tell  you  what  I'll  do.  I'll  tickle 
your  toes  till  you  go  to  sleep  for  a  week." 

"  I  don't  want  to  go  to  sleep  for  a  week.  I 
ain't  dead  !  " 

"  I  meant  every  afternoon  for  a  week,  till 
you  go  to  sleep." 

The  Captain  looked  at  his  slippers  reflec- 
tively. When  he  paused  to  consider,  he 
paused  to  yield  ;  and  when  he  yielded,  it  was 
not  in  miniature. 

"  How  big  is  the  pictur'  ?  " 

"  About  so  big,"  indicating  sixteen  by 
twenty  inches. 

"  Now,  what  does  you  s'pose,  at  my  time 
o'life,  I  wants  with  such  a  damn  little  scrap 
as  that  ?  Do  you  think  I  wants  to  be  a  puttin' 
on  specticles  every  time  I  look  at  a  pictur' 
o'  you  ?  Fetch  him  along  ;  'long  as  you  will 
have  it,  I  know  there  ain't  no  peace  fur  me 
till  I  gives  in  to  you,  and  while  you're  'bout  it 
tell  him  to  put  up  somethin'  handsome,  and 
damned  handsome  too  !  None  o'  yer  pewter 
platters  for  me  !  " 

The  Captain  considered  that  he  had  an  apt 
mind  for  comparison. 

A  retort  was  ready  upon  Mercy's  lips,  when 
the  door  was  quietly  opened,  and  Aunt  Polly, 
a  stickler  for  propriety,  entered,  dressed   for 


r2  JACK  O'DOON. 

dinner  in  an  old-fashioned  tabby  silk,  with 
the  lustre  and  cut  of  a  quarter  of  a  century 
ago. 

Mercy,  knowing  it  was  late,  hastened  to  her 
room.  The  Captain  rang  the  bell,  and  An- 
tonio carried  out  a  programme  which  had 
not  been  altered  in  his  memory  of  Blessington 
House. 

"Fetch  her  out,  Tony,"  said  the  Captain 
affectionately ;  he  could  not  realize  that  the 
old  steward  had  arrived  at  the  dignity  of 
Antonio.  Surely  he  did  not  look  like  a 
mummy  to  his  master.  Antonio  prom.ptly 
glided  across  to  the  old  mahogany  cupboard 
and  brought  thence  a  decanter  of  gin  and 
four  large  tumblers,  which  the  Captain  placed 
in  a  row  beside  his  own  plate  upon  the  table, 
already  laid.  He  then  filled  the  glasses,  each 
in  turn,  half  full  from  the  decanter,  and,  with 
a  smile  of  the  most  cordial  hospitality,  waved 
his  hand  to  three  imaginary  bons  camarades, 
drank  his  own  down,  fiery  and  undiluted, 
with  the  exclamation,  "  Let  her  go  !  "  as  if  he 
were  dropping  an  imaginary  anchor  in  an  im- 
aginary haven  of  rest.  Antonio  waited  until 
the  skipper  had  finished  his  performance,  and 
then,  with  a  profound  bow,  disappeared  with 
the  four  glasses,  three  of  which  were  yet  un- 
tasted  ;  and  a  moment  later,  with  a  strange 
imitation  of  the  master's  manner  and  cordial 
smile,  the  three  botis  cainarades  down  below 
waved  their  glasses  and  cried,  "  Here's  luck  to 
her  ! "  meaning  the  roof  over  them,  and  all 


JACK  O'DOON.  ^^ 

under  it,  and  drank,  as  the  master  had  done, 
the  undiluted  liquor. 

Then  Antonio,  thus  enlivened,  hurried  the 
hot  dishes  into  the  dumb-waiter,  sent  it  whiz- 
zing upward  by  a  twitch  of  his  elbow,  and 
pattered  after  it  with  his  slippered  feet. 
"  They  sends  obedience,  sir,"  said  he,  proceed- 
ing to  arrange  the  dinner. 

Mercy  returned  in  a  few  moments,  looking 
very  sad.  When  she  was  not  cajoling  her 
father  she  seemed  to  have  no  power  to  force 
a  smile  to  her  face.  Her  heart  was  heavy, 
but  she  was  studiously  alert  to  hide  it.  The 
conversation  at  dinner  was  spasmodic,  and,  as 
soon  afterward  as  it  was  possible,  she  stole  off 
to  bed  ;  but  once  within  the  seclusion  of  her 
own  room,  with  the  door  locked  behind  her, 
the  girl  threw  aside  the  deception  as  a  masker 
his  mask,  and,  sinking  down  upon  the  rug  be- 
fore the  fire,  abandoned  herself  to  an  exhaust- 
ing outpour  of  bitter  tears  and  imploring 
prayers  for  Jack. 


54 


JA  CK  O'DOON. 


CHAPTER  V. 

T  an  early  hour  the  next  morning — - 
and  the  same  will  hold  good,  with 
rare  exception,  of  every  morning  of 
the  year — the  Captain's  door  was  heard  to  bang, 
and  his  voice,  more  or  less  interrupted  by  a 
muscular  struggle,  heard  shouting,  as  if  to  a 
watch  aloft  : 

"  Mercy,  Mercy,  git  up  !  "  Another  almost 
suffocating  effort :  '♦  Git  up,  it's  high  time  you 
was  up  !  Sleepin'  away  the  whole  day,  and 
leavin'  yer  poor  ole  daddy  with  nobody  to  talk 
to,  instead  o'  gettin'  up  betimes  and  seein'  as 
there's  some  sort  o'  breakfus'  ready  fur  a 
hungry  man  to  eat !  " 

His  ejaculations  became  more  muttered  as 
he  interested  himself  in  his  performances. 

The  truth  is,  the  Captain  always  awoke  in 
a  bad  humor,  and  with  an  oppressive  sense 
of  loneliness  ;  for  he  was  excessively  commu- 
nicative, and  as  soon  as  he  was  wide  awake 
he  wanted  some  one  to  talk  to,  and  no  one 
suited  him  as  well  as  Mercy. 

As  for  the  poor  child,  she  only  turned  un- 
easily upon  her  pillow  and  fell  asleep  again. 

Now,  each   morning,  no  matter  where  the 


JACK  O' BOON.  rr 

thermometer  ranged,  it  was  the  Captain's  cus- 
tom to  have  a  good  swab  off,  probably  con- 
sidering that  his  broad  chest  bore  some  re- 
semblance to  the  deck  of  a  ship.  After  that, 
when  sufficiently  arrayed,  he  would  fling  his 
door  open  and  bang  it  after  him. 

finding  his  shoes  ready  outside,  he  would 
thrust  his  feet  into  them  and  begin  panting 
and  lacing  up  and  shouting  for  Mercy,  all  in 
a  breath — swearing  vehemently  at  the  shoe- 
tackle  which  exasperated  him. 

Having  accomplished  tying  his  shoes,  he 
would  stand  upright  and  shake  himself  to 
settle  his  trousers,  struggling  into  the  loops 
of  his  suspenders,  which  had  hitherto  been 
festooned  about  him.  Then  he  would  fling 
on  his  waistcoat,  which,  with  his  watch — which 
was  a  steady  old  machine  and  defied  corrup- 
tion from  bad  treatment — in  the  pocket,  had 
hung  on  the  door-knob  all  night. 

As  soon  as  he  had  elbowed  himself  into  his 
coat  he  considered  his  toilet  complete,  and 
descended  the  stairs. 

"  Get  down  !  "  angrily  to  Sailor,  who  m.et 
him  joyfully  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  and 
could  not  learn  that  his  master  always  got  up 
as  cross  as  a  bear.  "  There  ain't  room  enough 
in  this  house  yet.  Positively  I  can't  set  my 
foot  down  without  stepping  on  a  dog  !  "  Still, 
he  managed  to  find  his  way  to  the  back  door, 
which  he  unbolted  and  flung  open,  letting  in 
a  shivering  draft  of  wind  and  fog.  Looking 
around,   peering  into   the  mist,  he  presently 


r6  JACK  O'DOON. 

discernea  a  dark  object,  which  proved  to  be 
Bill  Junk,  returning  from  the  ash-pile  with 
an  empty  cinder-box. 

"  I  say,  man,  spread  out  the  mainsail,  en 
turn  her  about,  it's  time  we  was  done  break- 
fast long  ago  !  Lyin'  in  bed  till  the  mornin's 
half  gone.  Send  up  Tony,  and  be  damned 
quick  too  ;  I  ain't  got  no  use  fur  sich  a  lazy 
crew  !  "  With  this  he  was  sufficiently  chilled 
to  relish  the  dining-room  fire  ;  so  he  slammed 
to  the  door,  and,  jerking  out  the  big  silver 
watch  by  a  chain  as  stout  as  a  dog-collar, 
retired,  muttering  objurgations  between  his 
teeth  throughout  which  the  fact  of  the  hour 
being  six  figured  conspicuously.  Then  he 
settled  himself  in  his  arm-chair  and  took  a 
nap,  while  Antonio  noiselessly  crept  in  and 
laid  the  table.  Inconsistency,  thy  name  is 
Solomon  Blessington  ! 

He  was  insensible  to  Aunt  Polly's  matutinal 
greeting,  and  had  to  be  spoken  to  with  em- 
phasis when  breakfast,  in  reasonable  time, 
had  been  served. 

Before  he  sat  down,  the  ceremony  of 
"grog"  was  repeated,  and  then  the  Captain 
and  Aunt  Polly  proceeded  with  their  meal. 
But  before  helping  himself,  or  allowing  any- 
one else  to  be  helped,  he  took  the  carving 
knife  and  fork  and  felt  all  over  the  beefsteak  ; 
and  when  he  had  decided,  by  that  process, 
which  was  the  tenderest  spot,  he  cut  that  part 
out  carefully  and  transferred  it  to  a  plate 
which  Antonio  held  ready,  spread   a  spoon- 


JACK  O'DOObf.  ^7 

ful  of  dish-gravy  over  it,  and  bade  him  "  keep 
it  hot."  The  old  man  placed  it  \\\  the  dumb- 
waiter and  consigned  it  to  Bill  Junk.  Aunt 
Polly,  prompt  and  punctual,  remembering  the 
deserts  of  the  early  bird,  for  ten  years  had 
had  cause  to  resent  this  partiality,  and  habitu- 
ally straightened  her  lips  with  indignation  ; 
but  it  was  lost  on  the  Captain,  and  equally 
so  on  the  object  of  the  little  attention,  who  was 
still  asleep  upstairs. 

He  was  now  ready  to  proceed  with  break- 
fast in  earnest.  He  gave  Aunt  Polly  the  best 
of  all  that  remained,  which  might  have  satis- 
fied her  had  she  not  had  an  inordinate  sense 
of  her  own  dignity,  and  could  she  have  realized 
the  moral  of  the  fact  that  he  was  content  with 
what  might  have  been  considered  the  scraps, 
for  himself. 

In  about  two  hours  Mercy  appeared  and 
gave  her  father  a  loving  greeting,  which  he 
accepted  with  a  grunt. 

The  fog  had  lifted  and  there  was  a  clear 
prospect  for  the  day. 

After  ringing  for  Antonio,  Mercy  went  to 
the  window  and  looked  out.  Far  away,  be- 
yond the  garden  wall,  stretched  countless 
rolling  sand-hills,  and  on  the  summit  ot  one 
of  them  was  the  painter  with  his  easel. 

"  There  he  goes  !  "  cried  Mercy  excitedly, 
laughing  so  immoderately  that  the  tears  came 
into  her  eyes.  Her  father's  curiosity  being 
aroused,  he  came  and  stood  beside  her  at  the 
window. 


-8  JACK  O'DOON. 

"  Who  goes  ?     I  don't  see  nothin'." 

"  Why,  the  painter  and  his  easel.  Look 
over  there  ;  the  wind  has  blown  them  both 
down  and  is  spoiling  his  picture  with  the 
sand." 

"  A  redic'lus  fool  1  To  expec'  to  stan'  up 
agin  the  north  win'  with  them  rickety  sticks 
and  no  sort  o'  stanchions." 

"  Let's  go  out  and  see  him,"  said  Mercy. 
"  But  wait  a  minute  for  me,  till  I've  finished 
my  breakfast," — beginning  to  eat  it  in  a  great 
hurry. 

The  Captain  meanwhile  stood  watching  the 
other  man,  muttering  to  himself,  "  Deserves 
to  blow  down  !  Any  cussid  fool  what'll  stan' 
right  squar'  in  front  o'  a  solid  house  and  not 
make  no  efforts  to  git  inside  an'  work,  the 
same  as  me,  a-lookin'  out'n  the  window,  don't 
have  no  right  to  succeed." 

Being  uncommonly  fond  of  giving  advice, 
he  was  not  reluctant  to  accompany  Mercy 
when  she  had  put  on  her  cloak  and  hood,  but 
strode  after  her,  attended  by  Sailor,  who  ran 
ahead,  wagging  his  grisly  old  stump  of  a  tail, 
upon  which  the  brown  hair  kinked  in  knotty 
little  curls  like  cockle-burrs. 

It  was  rather  cold,  and  the  Captain  thrust 
his  hands  in  his  pockets  to  keep  them  warm, 
as  he  marched  along  with  a  reminder  of  the 
sailor's  roll  in  his  walk,  although  he  had  ac- 
quired, with  his  increasing  corpulency,  some- 
thing of  the  rich  man's  swagger.  He  wore  a 
broad-brimmed  black  silk  hat,   considerably 


JACK  O'DOON.  CQ 

wind-shaken  and  shaggy,  which,  with  his 
spacious  trousers,  cut  with  sailor's  breadth  of 
style,  gave  him  altogether  a  portly  and  im- 
posing appearance,  and  there  was  an  assurance 
of  authority  in  his  double-breasted  broadcloth 
coi't  notwithstanding  that  it  glistened  along  the 
seams. 

Mercy,  buttoned  up  to  the  ears  in  sealskin, 
followed  him.  When  the  Captain  arrived 
within  shouting  distance  he  began  :  •'  'Pears 
to  me  you  might  a-chose  a  better  place  to 
be  a-tumblin'  aroun'  !  It's  a  frosty  mornin'  to 
sport  yerse'f  like  a  weather-cock,  afore  ye 
fin'  out  that  the  gale's  a-blowin'  three  p'ints 
to  east  o'  north.  I  say,  stranger,  I  dunno  yer 
name,  you'd  better  come  over  and  warm  up 
a  bit." 

The  artist  looked  at  him  in  astonishment. 
He  had  been  so  interested  in  his  own  exploits, 
that  he  had  not  observed  the  approach  of  the 
party. 

•'  Oh,"  he  gasped,  proceeding  to  pack  the 
dry  sand  around  the  unstable  easel. 

The  Captain,  accustomed  to  pouring  forth 
advice  in  unmeasured  quantities  upon  the 
humble  folk  about  him,  expected  all  others  to 
receive  it  with  equal  avidity,  and  was  indig- 
nant and  disappointed  if  they  did  not. 

'«  Thank  you  very  much,"  said  the  stranger 
graciously,  pausing  for  breath,  "  but  I  have 
only  a  few  days  to  spare  and  I  must  make 
the  most  of  them.  I  seem  to  have  made  a 
mess    of   it    thus   far,    however."      Suddenly 


6o  JACK  O'DOON. 

catching  sight  of  Mercy,  he  blushed  crimson, 
with  that  excessive  sensitiveness  peculiar  to 
persons  with  hair  of  a  golden  red. 

"Well,  I  don't  see  no  sense  in  this  sort  o' 
thing  at  all.  What's  it  you  are  tryin'  ter  git  ?  " 
inquired  the  Captain,  floundering  up  the  steep 
side  of  the  sand-hill,  and  getting  very  red  and 
angry,  with  his  shoe-tops  full  of  grit,  against 
which  the  vaunting  breadth  of  his  trousers 
offered  no  protection,  "I  can't  see  ez  you 
'pears  to  be  accomplishin'  much  o' nothin',"he 
volunteered,  when  he  had  reached  the  top, 
wind-broken  and  red,  shoving  his  hat  back  to 
get  a  better  view  of  what  the  young  man  was 
about.  The  faint  blear  of  blue  sky  in  the  pic- 
ture was  smudged  with  sand,  and  the  artist 
looked  crestfallen  and  disconsolate. 

"I  say,  Mercy,  is  this  here  your  young 
man  ?  "  inquired  the  Captain,  suddenly  recol- 
lecting the  agreement  which  had  been  perpe- 
trated over  night. 

«'  Yes,  he's  the  one,"  said  Mercy,  smiling  a 
little  at  the  absurdity  of  the  question,  and  at 
what  the  "  young  man  "  must  think  of  it. 

♦♦  Has  you  got  yer  pictur'  along  ?  "  asked 
the  skipper,  turning  to  the  artist,  who  was 
suffering  another  relapse  of  blushes. 

The  Captain  could  not  conceive  what  he 
was  blushing  about,  and  stared  vainly  at  his 
pockets,  expecting  to  see  the  picture  sprouting 
out  of  one  of  them. 

Algernon  Abercrombie,  artist  and  gentle- 
man, looked  in  bewilderment  from  one  to  the 


JACK  o' boon;  6 1 

other  and  at  Sailor,  who,  with  a  genuine  touch 
of  masculine  curiosity,  had  begun  to  mix  mat- 
ters still  farther  by  tramping  in  the  color-box 
and  bursting  the  tubes  of  paint. 

"  I  don't  see  no  portrait,"  said  the  Captain 
blankly,  turning  to  Mercy  with  an  injured  ex- 
pression. "  How's  that,  young  man  ?  By  the 
by,  what's  your  name  ?  " 

"  Abercrombie,"  replied  Algernon. 

"Well,  Mr.  Aber — Aber — Xh&rcorn,  jes' 
fetch  *em  along,  an'  we'll  find  some  sort  o'  snug- 
ger port  than  this  here,"  replied  the  Captain, 
making  a  face  at  the  bleak  wind,  and  speaking 
as  one  having  authority.  "  I  ain't  got  no  use  fur 
no  sich,"  glancing  around  with  large  contempt ; 
"  there  ain't  nothm'  like  solid  comfort  ;  nothin' 
like  sittin'  down  behin'  a  wall  when  the  win' 
blows.  I'm  a  man  o'  solid  notions,  sir  !  Did 
ye  ever  have  the  rheumatiz  ?  Well,  we'll  all  on 
us  have  it,  if  you  don't  hurry  ;  an'thenex'  time 
you  happens  along  here,  jes'  step  in,  and  don't 
stop  to  ax  no  questions.  The  mos'  I  hates, 
is  folks  what's  a-holdin' off' all  the  time.  Yes, 
come  on  along  o'  us  ;  you  won't  be  the  fust 
stranger,  an'  I  'lows  you  ain't  a-goin'  to  be  the 
las',  what's  drunk  a  dram  with  Sol  Blessin'- 
ton  ;  'less'n  the  mainsheet  breaks,  en  I  ain't  a- 
hearken  to  it.  Come  along  with  ye  !  I  ain't 
got  no  objection  to  helpin'  ye  myse'f,"  said 
the  Captain,  suiting  the  action  to  the  word, 
and,  without  further  parley,  uprooting  the 
easel  and  starting  down  the  sand-hill  with  it. 
But  he  had  not  proceeded   far  when  the  sand 


62  J  A  CK  O'DOON. 

gave  way  beneath  his  feet  and  he  flung  the 
slight  structure  far  into  the  air  in  his  vain  en- 
deavor to  right  himself.  He  failed  in  that 
attempt ;  and  both  the  artist  and  Mercy,  not- 
withstanding their  efforts  to  the  contrary, 
shook  with  suppressed  laughter  at  sight  of 
him,  as,  with  widespread  arms,  and  legs  vainly 
clawing  the  loose  sand  which  followed  him  in 
showers,  he  slid  down  the  hillock.  "  If  he 
hadn't  a-been  such  a  darned  fool,  none  o'  this 
wouldn't  a-happened,"  cried  the  Captain,  strug- 
gling to  his  feet  and  endeavoring  to  spit  the 
sand  out  of  his  mouth,  breathless  with  anger 
and  embarrassment. 

"No,"  said  Mercy  sympathetically,  "if 
you  hadn't  been  so  kind  trying  to  help  him  and 
make  him  more  comfortable,  you  could  have 
looked  out  for  yourself  better." 

"  It's  jes*  the  way  with  them  idjuts,  always 
a-tryin'ter  do  things  without  no  sort  o'  reason 
about  the  wind  or  the  weather,  an'  jes'  see 
what  it's  come  to  !  " 

"  Oh,  you'll  soon  be  all  right,  you're  cold. 
Let's  go  home.  I'll  carry  the  canvas  and  you 
carry  the  easel,  and  he'll  be  sure  to  follow." 
So  she  picked  them  up  from  where  they  had 
fallen,  and,  giving  her  father  the  easel,  re- 
tained the  canvas  herself. 

Meanwhile  Algernon,  standing  on  the  sum- 
mit of  the  sand-hill,  was  enjoying  the  conty'e- 
temps  immensely,  fully  realizing  that  "  a 
hearty  laugh  is  often  the  best  introduction," 
and  making  a  very  sound  estimate  of  the  char- 


J  A  CK  O'DOON.  6^ 

acters  and  relations  of  his  new  acquaintances. 
He  shut  up  his  paint-box  and  followed  them. 

As  they  walked  along,  the  Captain  was  too 
disgusted  for  words,  and  Mercy  much  too 
wise,  while  Mr.  Abercrombie  submitted  with- 
out resistance  to  the  fate  which  was  dragging 
him,  "  will  he  nil  he  "  into  the  great  brick 
house,  looking  for  all  the  world  like  a  county 
jail,  with  its  heavy,  nail-studded  gate  set  in  the 
moss-grown  wall  coped  with  battered  glass 
and  cement.  Still,  the  childlike  overgrown 
simplicity  of  the  skipper,  and  the  earnestness 
of  his  daughter,  who  appeared  to  be  a  chip 
out  of  the  very  heart  of  the  old  block,  made 
the  young  artist  yield  himself,  without  reserve, 
to  these  powers  that  be.  Even  Sailor  had  an 
uncommon  ugliness  which  appealed  to  human 
sympathy  at  large. 

Algernon  felt  a  sense  of  protection  when  the 
oaken  shutters  swung  to  after  them,  and  in- 
cluded him  within  their  fold  ;  and  an  undi- 
vided curiosity  possessed  him  as  he  looked 
around  at  the  stunted  wind-break,  the  chalky 
shell  borders,  and  doubtful  flower-beds  before 
the  door. 

Antonio,  Bill  Junk,  and  Splugen,  accom- 
panied by  the  inevitable  green  parrot,  peep- 
ing out  of  the  mess-room  window,  with  their 
heads  in  a  line,  seeing  their  master  and  mis- 
tress so  unusually  laden,  came  out,  eager  to 
relieve  them. 

"  Here  you  are,  one  and  all  I  "  roared  the 
Captain,   as   glad  of  a   chance    to    bellow    as 


64  J  A  CK  O'DOON. 

a  bull  with  a  bee-sting.  "  I'll  be  bound  fur 
it,  got  nothin'  to  do  but  to  be  a-investigatin' 
everything  ye  see  !  I  suppose  you'd  all  like 
this  here  gentleman  to  think  we  ain't  never 
seen  a  artist  before  !  " 

Out  of  the  very  fullness  of  the  heart  the 
mouth  sometimes  speaketh,  and  it  is  not  to  be 
doubted  that  this  v/as  the  first  time  a  person 
in  that  line  of  accomplishment  had  crossed 
the  threshold  of  Blessington  House.  But  hos- 
pitality speedily  changed  his  temper,  and 
turning  to  Algernon  with  a  sudden  bland 
smile  the  Captain  exclaimed,  "Come  in,  sir, 
come  in,  it's  agreeable  !  "  waving  his  hand 
majestically,  so  that  no  doubt  was  left  in 
Algie's  mind  as  he  entered  the  deep-set  and 
massive  portal,  the  open  door  of  which  An- 
tonio was  holding  in  his  hand  ready  to  close 
after  them. 

••  Hurry  up,  Bill  Junk,  and  let's  have  tea  !  " 
cried  a  harsh  voice  in  the  dark  corridor,  which 
sounded  so  supernatural  and  uncanny  that  it 
made  Algie  start.  "  It's  that  damned  bird  ; 
jest  don't  make  yourself  oneasy,"  said  the 
Captain  apologetically,  leading  the  way  up 
the  stairs  to  the  dining-room,  and  almost  lan- 
guid with  affability. 

When  the  Captain  had  himself  chosen  a 
chair  for  Algie  and  induced  him  to  occupy  it, — 
for  in  his  own  house  he  was  as  polite  as  a 
mandarin, — he  rang  for  Antonio. 

"  Fetch  her  out,  Tony  !  "  he  cried,  with  his 
hospitable  smile  and  a  gracious  wave  in  the 


JACK  O'DOON.  6r 

direction  of  the  cupboard,  and  Tony  produced 
the  decanter  and  glasses,  adding  one  for  the 
stranger.  The  Captain  poured  out  his  usual 
half  tumbler,  apologizing  for  not  making  it 
stronger,  and  then  offered  the  decanter  to  the 
young  man,  who  looked  at  it  with  a  little  un- 
certainty. 

"  It's  mild,  sir,  mild  as  milk  !  "  said  the 
Captain  impatiently,  holding  his  glass  already 
half-way  to  his  lips.  "  Howsomesever,  I  ain't 
pressin'  ;  suit  yer  own  convenience,  Mr. — Mr. 
Applecorn — I  clean  forgits  yer  name." 

"  Abercrombie,"  suggested  Algie,  pouring 
out  a  shallow  quantity  into  the  bottom  of  his 
tumbler  and  looking  around  vainly  for  a  jug 
of  water. 

••  Water  ! "  exclaimed  the  Captain.  "  Pshaw, 
man,  that  ain't  no  mor'n  a  shadder.  Tony, 
fetch  him  the  water,"  returning  his  tumbler  to 
the  table  with  an  exasperated  sigh.  Antonio 
brought  the  water  quickly,  and  the  Captain 
resumed  his  glass,  along  with  his  smile,  and 
the  usual  toast  followed,  "  Here's  luck,"  to 
which  the  other  responded  with  its  repetition. 

At  this  moment  Mercy  came  into  the  room, 
and  Algie  expected  her  to  retire  in  disgust 
at  sight  of  two  men  drinking  together,  with 
three  other  glasses  standing  half  full  upon  the 
table.  Instead,  she  manifested  no  surprise, 
but  composedly  took  a  seat  by  the  fire.  Be- 
fore he  was  done  with  Blessington  House  he 
half  wondered  that  she  did  not  swear  and 
drink  also. 

5 


66  J^  CK  O'DOON. 

"  Well,  now,  jest  come  straight  to  land. 
I  ain't  much  give  to  tackin'  round  a  p'int. 
How's  it  'bout  that  pictur*  you  painted  o'  my 
Mercy  here  ?  " 

Algie  blushed  and  looked  hopelessly  at  the 
girl,  who,  surprised  to  find  even  the  top  of  his 
head  sending  a  rosy  gleam  through  his  hair, 
came  to  the  rescue. 

"  Well,  I "  he  had  begun  desperately. 

••  Oh,  don't  v/orry  about  it "  exclaimed  Mercy. 
"  I  admired  the  little  picture  so  much  that  I 
told  my  father  about  it,  and  I  did  hope  you 
would  be  willing  to  part  with  it,  and  that  he 
might  arrange  for  it." 

"  I  told  Mercy,"  said  the  Captain,  interrupt- 
ing her,  "  there  ain't  no  use  o'  me  a  buyin'  no 
sech  a  scrap.  When  I  wants  somethin'  I 
wants  it  bad,  and  I  don't  want  no  trash.  Now 
efyou  could  paint  somethin' handsome  !  " — 
indicating  an  unoccupied  space  upon  the  wall 
where  the  pattern  of  the  paper  meandered 
wearily  through  a  large  Arabesque  design. 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  understand.  Something  that 
would  fill  a  good  space  and  be  companion- 
able," responded  Algie. 

Recovering  himself,  he  wished  that  the  old 
man  would  leave  him  alone  to  talk  to  Mercy, 
or  that  Mercy  would  leave  him  to  her  father. 
He  detested  to  be  cornered  into  talking  busi- 
ness before  a  woman.  He  looked  appealingly 
at  her,  and  she  promptly  left  the  room. 

"  Bright  girl,"  thought  he,  following  her 
with  his  eyes. 


JACK  O'DOON.  5 7 

What  man  was  there  ever  so  susceptible 
as  Algie !  In  love  with  the  nursery  maid  at 
three  years  of  age,  he  had  never  since  been 
free  from  one  thrall  or  another. 

"  Now,  young  man,"  began  the  Captain,  *'  I 
■lon't  make  no  obligations  I  ain't  got  the 
money  to  meet ;  just  name  yer  figur'  and  let 
it  be  reasonable.  But  let  me  say  before  ye 
begins  that  Solomon  Blessin'ton  ain't  one  as 
flings  money  aroun'  broadcast.  He  knows 
the  value  o'  every  dollar  ;  so  name  yer  bot- 
tom price,  an'  let's  hear." 

"  I  can't  see  quite  how  it  can  be  managed 
at  all,"  replied  Algie,  who,  although  far  from 
reluctant  to  take  up  the  old  man's  offer,  was 
anxious  to  cover  his  eagerness  with  the  ap- 
pearance of  indifference  ;  for  already  the 
romance  of  the  situation  had  begun  to  work 
upon  his  fancy. 

"  How's  that  ?  "  exclaimed  the  Captain,  his 
face  blank  with  surprise. 

"  Well,  you  see,"  answered  Algie,  who  could 
sustain  a  part  if  necessary,  "  I  already  have 
some  engagements  ;  and  then  I  haven't  a 
studio  which  would  do  for  a  lady  to  pose  in, 
and  the  weather  is  too  unreliable  to  work  out 
of  doors  ;  so,  altogether,  I  don't  quite  see 
how " 

"  Damn  your  studio  !  "  interrupted  the 
Captain  excitedly.  "  Ain't  Solomon  Blessin'- 
ton's  house  good  enough  for  a  paint-shop  ? " 
■ — looking  with  pride  around  him. 

"  Oh,  it  would  be  quite  out  of  the  question," 


68  J  A  CK  O'DOON. 

protested  Algie,   "  I  could  not  presume   upon 
your  hospitality." 

"  Now  look  a-here,  young  man,"  said  the 
Captain  gruffly,  "  the  sooner  you  are  satisfied 
to  let  well  enough  alone,  the  better  for  you. 
The  little  you'll  eat  here  won't  be  nothin'  to 
me,  and  you're  welcome  to  it.  You  jes'  make 
up  yer  min'  and  say  what  yer  figur'  is  ;  I'm 
alius  willin'  to  be  far,  but  I  don't  want  to  be 
beholden  to  nobody,  and  I  want  yer  to  talk 
quick,  and  don't  pester  me,  a-keepin'  me  a- 
waitin'  ! " 

"  Well,"  replied  Algie  reluctantly — he  hated 
bargaining  over  his  pictures,  which  were  a 
part  of  his  life,  as  if  they  were  sticks  or 
stones, — "  well,  I  could  not  undertake  it 
for  less  than  three  hundred  dollars,  and  it 
would  probably  take  me  a  month,  and  I'm 
afraid  I  should  tire  you  out  before  that  time." 

The  old  man  sat  silent  for  a  moment.  He 
was  reflecting.  When  he  reflected,  he 
yielded  ;   this  was  invariable. 

•'  Well,  young  man,"  said  the  Captain  at 
length,  with  a  sigh, — "  I  disremembers  yer 
name,  it's  a  oncommon  one,"  he  interpolated 
apologetically, — "  long  ez  ye're  here,  and  I 
don't  'spect  to  indulge  no  sich  a  extravagance 
agin  soon,  and  I  ain't  got  but  one  chile, 
and  there  ain't  no  tellin'  how  soon  she'll  want 
to  be  a-startin'  a  home  o'  her  own,  and  gittin' 
away  from  mine,  and  seein'  partic'lar  ez 
she's  sort  o'  sot  her  heart  on  it,  I  reckon  ez 
how  I'll  agree." 


J  A  CK  O'DOON.  6g 

All  this  peroration  was  intended  to  recon- 
cile himself  to  what  he  thought  was  a  per- 
sonal extravagance.  And  thus  it  came  about 
that  Algernon  Abercrombie  found  himself  in 
clover,  and  was  paid  for  it,  at  the  rate  of  three 
hundred  dollars  a  month,  boarded  and  lodged, 
and  provided  with  a  new  heroine  to  entertain 
his  tickle  fancy.  Who  could  blame  him, 
since  the  Captain  had  been  eager  to  instate 
him  as  the  companion  of  his  daughter,  and  to 
pay  him  to  study  her  day  by  day  I  Alas  ! 
the  old  Captain  was  making  a  venture  with- 
out knowing  the  dangers  of  the  game  he  was 
playing. 

No  man  was  more  sincere  than  Algernon. 
He  could  not  help  being  fickle,  although,  of 
his  own  free  will  and  accord,  he  had  never 
unloved  one  of  his  numerous  flames. 

Mercy,  without  being  beautiful,  had  the 
most  winning  and  eloquent  of  faces,  with 
just  enough  pensiveness  at  times  to  inflame 
the  sympathy  of  his  ardent  temperament. 
Having  arranged  to  paint  her,  he  felt  priv- 
ileged to  study  her,  and  there  was  a  little 
feeling  of  tender  proprietorship  in  the  smile 
Algie  gave  her  when  she  re-entered  the 
room. 

"  Well,  Mercy,  we's  agreed  !  "  announced 
the  Captain,  with  a  similar  look  of  ownership, 
implying  that  the  young  artist  belonged  to 
■  him  for  a  month. 

Mercy  reassured  Algie,  who  colored  as  he 
looked  at   her,  by   saying  :   "  I   am   very  glad 


yo  JACK  O' DOOM. 

indeed,  very  glad  ;  but  do  you  know  I  have 
such  a  fancy  for  that  pretty  sketch  of  yester- 
day." 

"  So  have  I,"  replied  Algernon,  gaining 
confidence  with  her,  "  the  tone  is  so  good  ;  I 
fear  I  shall  not  get  it  again  as  well  !  " 

"What  do  artists  mean  by  totie  ?  "  inquired 
Mercy. 

"  I  fear  I  cannot  tell  you  easily,"  said  he, 
studying  the  face  before  him.  "If  you  look 
up  the  beach  you  will  observe  that  the  objects 
lose  force,  as  well  as  color,  until  they  fade 
into  the  haze  of  distance,  or  become  too 
minute  to  be  seen  ;  and  that,  however  strong 
the  contrast,  they  diminish  equally.  Now 
the  preservation  of  the  contrast  of  color  with 
a  just  degree  of  diminution  is  meant  by  sus- 
taining the  values.  A  number  of  values  so 
diminished  are  harmonious  when  they  sus- 
tain each  other  without  disagreement.  In  a 
grand  piano  a  note  is  made  of  three  strings, 
each  of  which  is  a  value  ;  the  three  together 
form  a  tone,  and  several  tones  in  satisfactory 
relation  result  in  harmony.  In  painting, 
values  which  agree  make  harmony.  . 

"  Many  harmonies  sometimes  exist  in  groups 
in  a  picture  and  combine  into  a  greater  coex- 
istent harmony,  which  we  call  tone.  Tone 
describes  the  average  color  of  the  whole  pic- 
ture. Transmute  the  idea  ;  take  a  rainbow, 
which  is  nature's  picture  on  the  sky.  You- 
will  have  seven  primary  colors,  which,  although 
distinct,  are  of  such  equal  value  that  they  har- 


J  A  CK  O'DOON.  y  I 

monize  into  a  gray  tone.  Blue  gray,  yellow  gray, 
red  gray,  green  gray,  and  so  forth.  The  tone 
of  a  rainbow  is  gray.  A  picture  is  low  in  tone, 
not  by  being  dark,  but  by  lacking  accent,  and 
being  dull.  It  is  high  by  reason  of  contrasts. 
High-toned  pictures  are  more  vivid,  and  have 
greater  chiaro  oscuroy 

"  And  what  is  that  ? "  exclaimed  Mercy. 

Algernon  began  to  feel  as  if  he  had  lent 
himself  for  a  school-teacher,  but  it  flattered  his 
vanity  all  the  same  to  have  two  earnest  eyes 
fixed  upon  his  face,  and  he  was  stimulated  to 
proceed. 

"  That  means  light  and  shade,"  said  he  ; 
"  but  not  only  the  light  and  shade  you  see, 
but  what  you  force  in,  to  bring  a  stronger  focus 
into  the  picture  and  prevent  it  from  looking 
flat  ;  because,  when  you  paint  from  nature, 
you  are  obliged  to  take  such  a  small  part  at  a 
time  of  all  you  see  that  you  often  have  to 
leave  out  the  natural  high  light  of  the  land- 
scape, and  therefore  you  force  the  picture  by 
transferring  to  it  something  w^hich  you  did 
not  find  in  that  place.  When  a  picture  is 
forced  so  much  that  it  has  only  the  fine  things 
in  the  scene,  and  none  of  the  commonplace 
ones,  it  loses  its  sincerity,  and  we  say  it  is  too 
cktc,  or  'goody-good.'  Pictures  exagger- 
ated, either  in  light  and  shade  or  in  tone  or 
values,  are  more  dramatic,  but  they  are  not 
simple  and  sincere  and  truthful." 

Algie  was  very  much  in  earnest  as  he  uttered 
these  last  words,  and   paused,  astonished   to 


72  JACK  O' DOOM. 

tind  that  he  had  made  so  long  a  speech,  while 
Mercy,  looking  at  him  kindly,  said  : 

*'  I  wish  I  could  paint." 

"You  could  not  paint,"  said  he,  "  without 
learning  to  draw  ;  color  without  form  is  de- 
formity. Still  you  are  welcome  to  amuse  your- 
self with  my  colors  while  I  am  here,  and  I  will 
help  you  all  I  can  ;  but  you  would  do  much 
better  to  have  a  sketch-book  and  a  blunt- 
pointed  pencil,  and  reduce  the  tones  and 
values  to  '  black  and  white.'  " 

Thus  they  laid  plans  for  the  future  :  he, 
enraptured  with  a  new  heroine,  and  full  of  the 
best  intentions  ;  she  interested  in  a  new  ac- 
quaintance, and  ingenuous  with  the  trust  of  a 
childlike  innocence  which  knew  absolutely 
nothing  of  the  ways  of  the  world. 


J  A  CK  O'DOON. 


13 


CHAPTER  VI. 


E  R  C  Y  '  S  eager  attention  flattered 
Algie,  although  he  saw  it  was  intel- 
lectual interest  only,  unleavened  by 
desire  for  personal  admiration.  Such 
was  the  virgin  coldness  of  her  innocent  smile, 
he  could  not  believe  it  possible  that  passionate 
fervor  could  co-exist  with  such  reserve.  It  is 
but  justice  to  him,  therefore,  to  say  that,  al- 
though he  felt  a  great  desire  to  win  her 
esteem,  he  had  no  misgivings  regarding  the 
future,  nor  was  there  any  unmanly  vanity  in 
his  wish  that  she  should  think  well  of  him. 

Mercy  sighed  so  heavily  that  Algie  looked 
at  her  in  surprise. 

The  needles  had  dropped  from  her  fingers, 
and  she  stealthily  brushed  her  eyes.  She  was 
experiencing  that  poignant  self-rebuke  one 
feels  on  awakening  from  a  distraction  to  the 
memory  of  3.  great  sorrow  momentarily  for- 
gotten. She  reproached  herself  with  having 
enjoyed  the  talk  of  this  pleasant  stranger,  who 
was  nothing  to  her,  while  poor  Jack  at  that 
moment  might  be  suffering  all  manner  of  tor- 
ments, even  that  of  madness  or  death. 

Algie    thought    her  the   most    phenomenal 


74  JACK  O'DOON. 

creature  he  had  ever  seen,  and  was  at  a  loss 
to  account  for  such  an  hysterical  transition, 
until  Mercy,  perceiving  his  surprise,  said  to 
him  : 

"  Of  course  you  do  not  know  that  we  are 
in  despair  about  one  of  our  vessels,  and  are 
awfully  distressed  for  the  safety  of  the  crew. 
My  foster-brother  is  the  mate  of  the  ship,  and 
his  death  would  be  insupportable." 

"  Oh,  I  dare  say  he'll  turn  up  all  right — 
some  day  when  you  least  expect  him,"  said 
Algie,  feeling  a  cloud  dim  the  sunshine  of  his 
thoughts.  Algernon  was  mercurial  and  be- 
came silent  after  a  slight  endeavor  to  cheer 
Mercy,  and  fell  to  meditating  upon  the  man 
who  had  thus  unexpectedly  arisen.  He  found 
himself  a  party  to  a  romantic  contract,  bound 
to  devote  himself  to  a  lovely  young  woman, 
whose  duties  to  himself  as  hostess  and  model 
were  quite  as  imperative  and  stringent.  He 
did  not  feel  pleased  at  the  prospect  of  a  rival 
with  eighteen  years  the  start  of  him,  since 
eighteen  years  against  one  day  is  a  race  sadly 
at  odds.  It  was  a  strong  proof  of  his  kind- 
ness of  heart  that  he  devoted  his  ingenuity  to 
devising  possible  and  plausible  coincidences 
which  might  have  conspired  to  promote  Jack's 
rescue  and  salvation,  all  vividly  portrayed  with 
an  eloquent  tongue  and  a  marvellous  voice.  I 
dwell  upon  Algie's  voice,  because  it  was  his 
great  gift  and  his  great  responsibility  as  well. 

He  could  not  have  chosen  a  more  certain 
manner   of  winning   the    girl's    heart.      She 


J  A  CK  O'DOON.  h  2 

really  needed  a  youthful  friend.  Jack  was 
the  only  friend  she  had  ever  had,  except 
Mother  Margery.  Algernon,  judging  her 
as  a  stranger,  thought  he  had  discovered  a 
secret ;  but  he  was  wrong  in  supposing  the 
rough  mate  of  the  "  Marianetta  "  to  be  her 
lover,  declared  or  undeclared.  Such  a 
thought  had  not  entered  her  mind.  Jack  had 
not  dared  lift  his  hopes  so  high.  She  was 
and  had  ever  been  an  idol  to  him,  which  he 
never  expected  to  woo  from  the  safe-keeping 
of  its  present  shrine.  Worship  forbids  equal- 
ity, and  this  idolatry  in  a  rude  way  was  wor- 
ship, the  worship  of  a  great  physical  power 
for  an  exalting  moral  one  ;  and  Mercy  knew 
she  must  miss  that  devotion  which  had  never 
failed  in  its  constancy  and  faith. 

Had  she  known  more  of  men,  she  would 
have  discovered  speedily  that  Algie  was 
much  too  impatient  of  tritles  to  render  her 
such  daily  and  hourly  homage.  He  con- 
densed mighty  emotions  into  a  few  days  of  ex- 
aggerated passion,  which  ended  in  nothing 
save  remorse  or  disgust.  No  woman  had 
hitherto  been  found  with  sufficient  far-sighted 
courage  to  wait  with  faith  for  the  Phoenix  to 
arise  from  the  ashes,  believing  that  it  would 
arise. 

Algernon  was  capable  of  living  a  nobler 
life  than  he  had  lived  ;  but  he  needed  the 
stimulant  of  hourly  contact  with  a  more  con- 
sistent nature — or,  at  all  events,  one  strong 
where    he    was    weak.       Mercy's    truth    and 


y6  JACK  O' DOOM. 

purity  appealed  divinely  to  his  imagination. 
She  could  not  conceive  of  inconstancy  since 
she  had  never  known  it,  and  during  his  stay 
at  Cassandra  she  showed  such  faith  in  the 
sincerity  of  every  word  he  uttered  as  almost 
to  drive  him  wild,  since  he  could  not  quite 
decide  whether  it  resulted  from  indifference 
or  confidence,  forbearance  or  contempt.  The 
pendulum  of  his  heart  beat  to  and  fro,  with 
ever  a  settling  to  the  mean  distance. 

Algie's  fickleness  had  hitherto  been  a  con- 
stant cause  of  anxiety  to  his  friends,  although 
it  was  the  result  of  fastidiousness  and  impa- 
tience, rather  than  shallowness  and  want  of 
force,  as  they  had  imagined.  Many  a  man, 
of  great  and  varied  powers,  fails  through 
want  of  a  single  quality  which  another  per- 
son, closely  allied  to  him,  might  unconsciously 
supply.  His  extravagances  were  a  subject  of 
censure  as  well,  and  it  is  to  be  feared  that 
New  Year's  Day  too  often  found  the  generous 
vagabond  with  a  balance-sheet  weighing 
heavily  the  wrong  way. 

Still  he  was  accounted  a  good  fellow, whom 
every  one  loved  with  too  genuine  a  feeling  to 
be  quite  willing  to  speak  ill  of;  and  even 
that  may  be  worth  something  in  the  long  run  ; 
since  he  that  is  not  against  us  is  for  us, 
although  it  is  to  be  regretted  that  those  who 
had  been  the  objects  of  his  generosity  had 
not  found  occasion  to  make  good  words 
available. 

The  Captain,  meanwhile,    had    been     agi- 


JACK  O'DOON.  yy 

tated  to  a  fresh  realization  of  his  respon- 
sibility as  a  father,  by  Aunt  Polly,  who,  not 
having  come  under  the  seduction  of  Algie's 
charming  manner,  had  vehemently  assailed 
the  judiciousness  of  the  Captain's  hospitable 
intentions  ;  finally  asserting,  with  angry  ve- 
hemence, that  he  had  gone  out  of  his  way, 
with  childish  giddiness,  to  drag  a  stranger 
into  the  house,  whose  threadbare  coat  was 
proof  sufficient  that  he  was  a  tramp. 

"  All  the  more  need  of  a  chance  to  earn 
his  bread,"  the  Captain  protested. 

"  He  might  be  the  most  corrupt  person  in 
the  world  !  "  Aunt  Polly  insisted.  "  Here 
are  Mercy  and  I,  exposed  to  the  contamina- 
tions of  a  wandering  vagabond,  who  might 
have  no  moral  character.  Indeed,  Solomon, 
it  is  wickedness  ;  I  can  call  it  by  no  other 
name  !  " 

"  Now  look-a-here,  Polly,  do  ye  s'pose  I 
don't  know  men,  and  can't  tell  a  gentleman 
when  I  lay  my  eyes  on  him  ?  "  exclaimed  the 
Captain,  exasperated  ;  and,  turning  impatient- 
ly away,  he  started  with  surprise  at  seeing 
three  pair  of  eyes  in  a  row  blinking  through 
the  mess-room  door,  slightly  ajar.  Now  the 
Captain  knew  very  well  that,  in  the  secret 
places  of  their  hearts,  the  three  old  shipmates 
detested  Aunt  Polly  ;  and  there  was  a  child- 
like satisfaction  to  the  skipper  in  the  knowl- 
edge that  even  if  Aunt  Polly  got  the  better 
of  him,  somebody  was  taking  his  part,  and  he 


7 8  JACK  O'DOON. 

felt  suddenly  robust  with  moral  support  and 
returned  to  the  charge. 

Aunt  Polly,  changing  her  tactics,  granted 
that  the  artist  might  be  a  gentleman,  but  she 
assured  the  Captain  that,  if  he  were,  Mercy 
would  certainly  fall  in  love  with  him.  The 
Captain  was  too  obtuse  to  see  anything  mon- 
strous in  that  idea,  and  the  three  sailors  lis- 
tened with  increased  interest. 

But  the  Captain's  curiosity  being  equal  to 
Aunt  Polly's  imagination,  he  determined  to 
settle  the  matter  at  once,  and  proceeded  to  the 
dining-room,  which  in  winter  was  used  as 
a  common  sitting-room  as  well.  Finding 
Mercy  and  Algie  in  what  seemed  a  suspi- 
ciously confidential  attitude,  that  is,  Mercy 
reclining  in  her  chair,  and  Algernon  leaning 
eagerly  forward,  still  holding  his  hat  in  his 
hand,  he  might  have  felt  there  was  some 
truth  in  Aunt  Polly's  prognostication,  had  not 
the  sadness  in  Mercy's  face  contradicted  it, 
and  the  extreme  deference  of  Algie's  manner 
reassured  him. 

"  Um,  well,  aw —  !  "  began  the  Captain  with 
such  evident  embarrassment  that  even  Mercy 
looked  up  with  surprise,  "  Mr.  Abercorn,  I  wuz 
a-thinkin'  that  you  ain't  got  no  stuff  here  to 
work  on,  and  I've  got  some  sort  o'  business 
what'll  take  me  to  town,  to  Richmond 
more'n  like,  and  it  struck  me  of  a  sudden 
p'raps  you'd  like  tergo  'long  and  fetch  'em." 

The  Captain  smiled  self-approvingly,  for  he 
had  conceived  the  plan  of  making  it  his  business 


JACK  O'DOON.  >jn 

to  find  out  all  there  was  to  know  about  the 
unconscious  Algernon,  although  that  person 
would  have  been  quite  equal  to  giving  a  pretty 
bad  account  of  himself.  As  events  proved, 
however,  the  victim  of  this  plot  gained  con- 
siuerably  by  it  ;  for,  as  I  have  said,  Algie's 
friends  were  sufficiently  bound  to  him  to 
bestow  a  good  word  when  they  had  nothing 
more  convertible. 

"  But,  really,"  began  Algie,  reddening,  "  I 
am  in  such  a  plight  I  could  not  present  myself 
with  you  in  Richmond." 

The  Captain's  brow  clouded,  but  he  was  a 
man  of  such  habitual  kindness  that  it  quickly 
cleared.  "  Well,  I  ain't  proud,"  he  replied, 
looking  at  the  young  man  with  self-evident 
compassion. 

Algie  smiled  to  himself,  "  An  Oyster  Cove 
skipper  ashamed  to  be  seen  in  company 
with  Mr.  Algernon  Abercombie.  What  next  !" 
His  mother  would  have  said  it  "  served  him 
just  right  for  mixing  himself  up  with  such 
vulgar  people  !  "  But  when  he  looked  at  his 
old  painting-coat,  as  ragged  as  it  was  com- 
fortable, he  began  to  feel  a  little  of  the  wonder 
of  a  stranger's  eyes. 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Blessington  ! "  he  cried 
deprecatingly,  "  I  am  so  ashamed  to  have  put 
in  such  an  appearance,  but  my  clothes  are  at 
a  tavern  near  the  station,  and  I  fear,  if  I  should 
delay  to  make  a  change,  you  would  miss  the 
train,  and  that  would  interfere  with  your 
plans.     Really  you  must  allow   me  to  return 


8o  JACK  O'DOON. 

to  my  lodgings  and  make  myself  presentable. 
I  did  not  expect  to  meet  a  lady  when  I  left 
this  morning." 

"  Ah,  indeed,"  exclaimed  the  Captain,  in 
some  confusion,  berating  Aunt  Polly  in  his 
secret  mind,  but  casting  about  wildly  for 
something  to  say.  Pulling  out  his  big  watch 
by  way  of  diversion,  he  regarded  it  studiously. 
"  No,  it  ain't  late.  I'll  have  her  got  ready, 
and  we'll  go  over  thar  in  no  time  at  all,  and 
ye  ken  jes'  fetch  yer  tackle  here  and  make 
yourself  at  home,  like,  don't  ye  know  ?  " 

*«  Certainly,"  replied  Algernon,  with  well- 
feigned  alacrity,  although  he  would  have 
much  preferred  spending  the  morning  with 
Mercy  to  rushing  off  to  Richmond  with  this 
blustering  old  mariner.  But  it  was  a  conso- 
lation to  know  that  it  would  soon  be  done  and 
over  with,  so  he  made  the  most  of  the  short 
interval  before  the  Captain  summoned  him. 
He  could  not  resist  turning  back  at  the  last 
moment  to  give  her  a  parting  glance.  Hos- 
pitality alone  prompted  Mercy  to  say,  "  I 
hope  you  will  be  back  early  to-morrow,  Mr. 
Abercrombie." 

Aunt  Polly,  prim  and  severe,  was  just  en- 
tering the  doorway,  and,  overhearing  her 
remark,  looked  at  the  Captain  with  the  most 
"  I-told-you-so  "  expression,  and  afterward 
gazed  stonily  at  the  young  man  as  if  he  were 
a  thief. 

Algernon,  at  all  times  over-sensitive,  colored 
until  he  was  crimson,  and  his  hair  and  mous- 


J  A  CK  O'DOON.  8 1 

tache  stood  out  in  relief  like  new  bronze. 
Mercy's  instinct  to  protect  was  as  ready  as 
her  compassion,  and,  knowing  the  meaning 
of  Aunt  Polly's  lofty  mien,  came  forward 
promptly. 

"  Aunt  Polly,"  said  she,  •'  you  have  not  met 
my  pleasant  acquaintance  of  yesterday  ;  this 
is  Mr.  Abercrombie,  who  has  been  so  very 
good  as  to  promise  to  paint  my  portrait." 

Aunt  Polly  bowed  grimly,  and  Algie,  re- 
covering himself,  gave  Mercy  a  look  ol  unut- 
terable gratitude. 

"  This  here  young  man  an'  me's  a  goin'  to 
the  city  to  fetch  home  some  things  ;  and,  Mer- 
cy, you  jes"  tell  Splugen  to  put  her  in  the  gig 
while  I  go  up  an'  shave,  and  holler  for  Tony 
to  fetch  the  hot  water.  Long  ez  ye  ain't  got 
yer  clean  close  here,  Mr.  What' s-yer-name, 
jes'  set  down  and  make  yerselt  comfortable 
by  the  fire  till  I  get  dressed." 

Algie,  having  mistaken  the  Captain's  nod, 
which  had  been  intended  for  Mercy,  and  per- 
ceiving that  he  was  expected  to  return  to  the 
fireside,  followed  Aunt  Polly. 

When  Mercy  came  back,  she  found  him 
endeavoring  to  make  himself  agreeable,  and 
failing  utterly. 

Aunt  Polly  sat,  grimly  assertive  of  her  own 
virtue  and  immaculateness. 

Her  hair  was    rolled  smoothly  over  round 
combs  upon  each  side  of  her  pale  forehead. 
Her  collar  was  wide  and  white  and  ver)^  stiff",' 
and  would  have  choked  any  other  person,  but 
6 


82  JACK  O'DOON. 

her  face  was  bloodless.  Her  eyes  were  of  a 
light,  uninspired  blue  ;  and  her  white  hands 
were  folded  upon  her  lap. 

"  By  Jove  !  "  Algie  was  thinking,  "  this  is 
more  than  I  bargained  for  !  It  is  a  mistake 
to  give  the  sweet  first,  and  the  bitter  after- 
wards." He  suspected,  shrewdly  enough,  that 
his  old  coat  was  his  evil  genius  ;  so  he  began 
making  apologies. 

"  I  was  just  saying  to  Mr.  Blessington, 
madame,  that  I  was  ashamed  to  have  put  in 
such  an  appearance  ;  but  I  came  out  this 
morning  intending  to  work  very  hard  ;  and 
when  that  happens,  I  dare  not  trust  myself  in 
decent  clothes,  or  I  should  live  at  my  tailor's." 

Aunt  Polly  relented  a  little,  and  cast  upon 
him  a  half-inquiring  glance. 

"  I  am  ever  and  always  shocking  my 
mother.  She  declares  I  ought  to  belong  to  a 
junk-shop,"  he  added,  seeing  she  did  not 
speak. 

"  You  have  found  your  destination  here," 
said  Mercy  laughing,  "for  I  have  been  think- 
ing you  might  use  father's  lumber-room  for  a 
studio.  It's  the  most  awful  place  at  present. 
Would  you  like  to  see  it  ?  Won't  you  come 
too,  Aunt  Polly  ?  "  she  added,  rising  and  lead- 
ing the  way. 

Aunt  Polly  was  too  much  amazed  at  Mercy's 
forwardness  to  reply,  and  Algie,  frantic  to  es- 
cape, followed  precipitately.  She  crossed  the 
hall,  and,  opening  the  opposite  door,  they  en- 
tered   a    long    room.     It    held,  in  outlandish 


J  A  CK  O'DOON.  S  X 

mixture,  the  probable  gleanings  of  a  seafar- 
ing life  heaped  in  the  corners,  about  the  floor, 
or  rudely  piled  against  the  walls. 

"  I  have  so  often  wished  I  could  arrange 
these,"  said  Mercy,  after  allowing  Algie  time 
to  look  around. 

"By  Jove  !"  he  exclaimed,  "what  fine  prop- 
erties for  a  studio  !  If  you  say  so,  and  your 
father  is  willing,  we  will  do  these  things  up 
magnificently  before  we  begin  the  picture  at 
all." 

"I  will  see  if  I  can  persuade  him,  but  you 
must  leave  it  entirely  to  me.  These  queer 
things  have  all  been  brought  to  him  by  sailors 
he  has  befriended,  for  my  father  has  a  very 
kind  heart." 

"  In  the  mouth  of  many  witnesses,"  quoted 
Algernon,  who  was  fond  of  making  quotations 
and  never  made  them  accurately. 

"  Father  never  would  quite  consent  to  let 
me  arrange  them,  but,  if  you  help  me,  he 
may." 

"  I  will  show  him  my  studio,"  said  Algernon 
with  pardonable  pride,  at  the  same  time  cast- 
ing his  eyes,  with  the  practised  knowledge  of 
an  artist,  over  the  extraordinary  collection  of 
things,  both  hideous  and  beautiful,  which  lay 
in  dusty  confusion  about  him. 

His  face  shone  with  pleasure,  as  if  he  would 
have  enjoyed  going  to  work  then  and  there, 
but  at  that  very  moment  the  Captain  was 
heard  descending  the  stairs,  talking  to  him- 
self;   and    Algie,   being    alone    with   Mercy, 


84  J  A  CFC  O'DOON. 

impulsively  offered  his  hand  to  bid  her  good- 
bye. 

"  You  will  certainly  see  me  again,"  said  he, 
turning  toward  Aunt  Polly,  who  was  standing 
in  the  hall,  "  for  you  know  I  am  leaving  the 
best  part  of  me  behind." 

Aunt  Polly  was  scandalized  and  looked  re- 
proachfully at  the  young  man,  who,  in  truth, 
did  not  mean  his  heart,  but  his  paint-box. 


JA  CK  O'DOON.  g^ 


CHAPTER  VII. 

LGERNON  experienced  some  diffi- 
culty in  accommodating  himself  to 
the  small  space  which  remained  in 
the  gig,  the  Captain  having  further 
increased  the  amplitude  of  his  stout  figure  by- 
arraying  himself  in  an  enormous  Irish  driv- 
ing-coat with  capes,  which  was  a  part  of  the 
collection.  But,  being  determined  to  make 
the  most  of  his  situation,  Algie  clung  tena- 
ciously to  the  back  of  the  gig,  half-embracing 
the  Captain. 

The  old  skipper  had  conceived  a  wonderful 
liking  for  the  younger  man,  and  when  he 
came  forth  from  his  lodging  dressed  in  the 
perfection  of  fashion,  he  sighed  to  think  he 
could  not  take  him  bodily  and  present  him  to 
Aunt  Polly. 

It  was  late  when  they  reached  Richmond, 
and  the  train  slowed  up  for  the  long  bridge. 
The  red  glow  from  the  iron-works  gleamed 
across  the  river,  and  the  lights  of  the  city 
sparkled  like  fire-flies  in  the  hollows  of  its 
hills. 

"  I  hope  you  won't  mind  my  leaving  you 
at  my  studio  for  a  little  while,"  said  Algie 
to  the  Captain,  "  and  after  that  we'll  have  a 
snug   little  dinner  together.     Here  we  are," 


86  JACK  o'Dooy. 

he  added,  a  few  minutes  later,  as  the  carriage 
drew  up  at  the  curbstone. 

When  he  had  opened  the  door  of  his  studio 
with  a  key  from  his  pocket,  he  touched  a  but- 
ton, and  the  room  became  instantly  ablaze 
with  electric  light.  The  Captain  was  para- 
lyzed with  wonder.  To  his  eyes,  confused  by 
the  sudden  change  from  the  darkness,  it  was 
like  a  scene  from  the  "  Arabian  Nights." 

Algie  loved  luxury,  and  had  been  rash 
enough,  upon  his  coming  of  age,  to  cut  a  slice 
from  his  inheritance  and  deliberately  invest  it 
in  what  his  friends  called  "  trash."  He  could 
not  dispute  their  wisdom,  but  had  maintained 
that  ugliness  shortened  life  and  limited  intel- 
ligence ;  and  ugly  things,  as  household  gods, 
he  could  not  have. 

The  Captain,  by  instinct,  had  good  taste, 
and  the  young  artist  felt  great  satisfaction  in 
watching  him  as  he  walked  around,  handling 
the  heathenish  bric-a-brac,  exclaiming  at  in- 
tervals, "Well,  I  never  !" 

"You'll  have  time  for  a  good  rest,"  said 
Algie,  assisting  him  to  remove  his  coat,  "  and 
what  would  you  say  to  a  brandy  smash  ?  " 

"  I'm  agreeable  !  "  said  the  Captain,  with- 
out coquetry,  settling  himself  in  a  very  large 
arm-chair  and  passing  his  hands  through  his 
w^hite  hair,  until  it  stood  on  end. 

Algie  rang  for  his  servant,  and  placed  the 
Captain  under  his  care  before  leaving. 

Chance,  or  Mr.  Algernon  Abercrombie,  de- 
veloped  the  Captain's  plot. 


JACK  O'DOON.  gy 

"Go  seek  a  man's  valet,  if  you  would  know 
the  man." 

The  old  skipper  sipped  his  grog,  as  he 
stared  into  the  newly-lighted  fire,  smiling  to 
himself  the  while,  and  admiring  his  own 
shrewdness.  But  Algernon  Abercrombie 
would  not  have  been  himself  if  he  could  not 
put  Aunt  Polly  and  the  old  painting-coat  to- 
gether, and  have  worked  out  the  combina- 
tion. 

"  Does  all  these  here  things  belong  to  this 
here  young  man  ?  "  inquired  the  Captain  of 
Jarvis. 

"Yes,  sir;  an'  lots  more  beside,  an'  more's 
always  a-comin' !  " 

"  How's  that  ?  "  said  the  Captain,  wonder- 
ing. 

"  He's  such  a  favor/7^  with  the  ladies,  sir. 
There  ain't  hardly  a  day  passing  but  brings 
something  for  a  present.  He's  a  gentleman, 
sir,  of  the  choicest.  There  ain't  no  more  of  a 
gentleman  in  this  here  town  of  Richmond  ; 
that's  the  reverend  truth  for  sure." 

"  Don't  he  have  no  men  folks  for  frien's  ?  " 
inquired  the  Captain  uneasily,  feeling  some 
misgivings  about  the  fulfilment  of  Aunt 
Polly's  prophecy. 

"Oh,  yes,  sir!  Indeed  he  do,"  answered 
Jarvis,  brushing  a  few  motes  of  dust  off  the 
mantelpiece  with  his  forefinger.  "  He's  got 
more  of  them  poor  artists  runnin'  after  him 
than  it  pays  him  to  have.  I  was  a-sayin' 
yestiddy  to  Mr.  Jinks,  what  waits  below,  that 


gg  J  A  CK  O'DOON. 

Mr.  Abercrombie  was /(^i? good-natured — kind- 
hearted,  so  to  speak — for  his  own  accumula- 
tion. He's  one  o'  them  sort  as  is  too  much  of 
a  gentleman  to  take  proper  keer  of  theirselves. 
He's  always  gittin'  imposed  upon  !  Why,  sir, 
you  kin  believe  me  if  you  choose,  but  if  / 
didn't  take  keer  of  him  he  wouldn't  have 
nothin'  !  " 

"The  Captain  eyed  his  empty  glass  and 
sighed.  "  You  ain't  got  no  good  ole  Jamaiky, 
is  ye  ?  "  he  said  at  length. 

"  I'm  afeared  I  ain't,"  said  Jarvis,  ••  but 
here's  various  sorts,"  he  added,  rather  pom- 
pously, pulling  aside  the  curtain  of  mandarin 
yellow  brocade  which  hung  across  the  cup- 
board door. 

"  How's  it  that  yer  young  man  don't  take 
one  o'  them  gals  en  anchor  by  her  ?  I 
reckon  if  he  did,  t'others  might  let  him  have  a 
chance  ter  war  out  them  slippers." 

"  Well,  sir,"  answered  Jarvis,  dropping  his 
voice  mysteriously,  "  it  do  seem"  sometimes  ez 
ef  it  wa'n't  nothin'  but  contrariness  ;  but  I 
'lows  he's  kinder  choice.  I  reckon  he  ain't 
found  one  yet  as'U  please  him  satisfactory. 
Then,  agin,  I  'lows  he's  sp'ilt,  they  all  makes 
such  a  fuss  over  him,  continual." 

Meanwhile  Algernon  had  found  his  way  to 
his  mother's  dressing-room,  where,  robed  in  a 
black  satin  peignoir,  with  a  towel  across  her 
shoulders,  she  sat,  submitting  to  having  her 
hair  dressed  for  a  dinner-party. 

♦'  I  told  you  so,  Algernon,"  she  was  saying. 


J  A  CK  O'DOON.  8q 

"  I  knew  there  was  a  girl  at  the  bottom  of 
It. 

"What  I  came  to  say,"  replied  her  son, 
ignoring  her  remark,  "  is,  that  the  Captain 
has  agreed  to  give  me  three  hundred  dollars 
for  painting  the  picture  of  his  daughter,  and 
it  will  save  me  a  lot  of  expense  for  a  month, 
besides  putting  money  in  my  pocket.  More- 
over, I  shall  have  a  good  rest  and  keep  early 
hours  and  be  with  the  kindest  people  in  the 
world.  A  new  state  of  things,  you  must  con- 
fess, for  me." 

"  What  sort  of  people  are  they  ?  "  inquired 
his  mother  anxiously. 

"  As  common  as  they  make  'em  I  That  is, 
all  except  the  daughter,  who  is  the  purest- 
looking  girl  I  ever  saw.  The  old  skipper  owns 
a  number  of  vessels  and  a  fleet  of  oyster 
smacks  ;  and  there  is  an  old  maiden  aunt  who 
is  a  living  terror,  a  small  maid  who  is  never 
to  be  found,  three  old  sailors,  a  hideous 
brown  dog,  and  a  green  parrot.  All  live  in 
a  big  brick  house  in  the  sand-hills,  where  it 
is  as  lonely  as  the  North  Pole  and  just  about 
as  primitive.  But  the  Captain's  a  jolly  old 
torpedo,  with  a  voice  like  a  roaring  tempest 
and  a  smooth  red  face  like  a  big  baby's.  I 
know  you'd  like  him.  Do  let  me  bring  him 
around  in  the  morning  1  " 

"  My  child  I  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Abercrombie 
in  dismay.  "  I  couldn't  receive  the  man  before 
breakfast.  Couldn't  he  come  up  another  time  ? 
I  am  so  sorry  to  refuse  you." 


QO  JACK  O'DOON. 

"  Well,  go  with  me  to  the  studio  this  even- 
ing, and  let  me  show  you  off  before  dinner, 
you  would  give  me  no  end  of  a  character  !  " 

"  What  time  is  it  now  ? "  inquired  Mrs. 
Abercrombie,  hesitating. 

"  Only  a  quarter-past  seven." 

*'  But  I  am  to  dine  at  half-past  eight." 

He  finally  overcame  her  reluctance,  and 
persuaded  her  to  make  the  time  for  him,  and 
they  presently  set  out  together. 

"Now,  my  dear  boy,"  she  said,  when  they 
were  in  the  coupe,  "  promise  me  not  to  fall  in 
love  with  this  Captain's  daughter.  If  you  only 
knew  the  anxiety  so  many  love-affairs  cost  me  ! 
Positively,  it  keeps  me  awake  at  night." 

"  Now  look  here,  mother,  if  you  talk  like 
that,  I'll  believe  you're  jealous.  Mothers  are 
such  selfish  creatures  ! "  answered  Algie, 
laughing.  "  But  here  we  are,  and  do  be  nice 
to  him, — I  want  to  make  an  impression." 

"  An  impression  on  whom,  the  mariner  or 
the  mermaid  ?  "  said  she,  taking  his  hand  to 
get  out  of  the  carriage.  Algie  did  not  reply, 
but  busied  himself  with  holding  the  train  of 
her  gown  as  she  crossed  the  sidewalk  and 
ascended  the  stairs. 

When  they  reached  the  studio  the  lights 
were  still  lowered,  and  the  Captain  asleep. 
Jarvis  w'as  nowhere  to  be  seen. 

Algie  and  Mrs.  Abercrombie  had  the 
advantage  of  the  situation. 

When  the  old  skipper  discovered  them  he 
started  to  his  feet  with  a  bound,  astonished  to 


J  A  CK  O'DOON.  Q I 

find  himself  in  the  presence  of  a  beautiful 
woman.  He  rubbed  his  eyes,  and  shook  him- 
self to  see  if  he  were  dreaming,  pulling  down 
his  waistcoat  and  smoothing  his  hair  to  make 
himself  presentable. 

"Captain  Blessington,"  said  Mrs.  Aber- 
crombie,  taking  a  step  forward,  and  offering 
her  hand  to  the  Captain,  who  received  it  like 
an  oyster,  and  let  it  slip  out  of  his  grasp, 
«'  my  son  tells  me  that  he  is  going  to  you  for  a 
month,  and  I  came  down  for  a  moment  to  see 
you,  and  beg  you  to  take  good  care  of  him." 

"There  ain't  nothin'  to  hurt  him,  ma'am," 
answered  the  Captain  artlessly  ;  "  he  ain't 
sickly,  I  hope  ?  "  taking  his  spectacles  out 
of  a  tin  box  and  putting  them  on  to  look  at 
Algie. 

"  He  tells  me  you  have  a  fine  large  house. 
I  thought  there  was  nothing  but  barren  sand 
at  Cassandra  Bay." 

"  It's  come  by  boat,  ma'am.  I  like  things 
solid  an'  comfortable,  and  don't  go  in  fur  show 
without  no  foundation.  Reg'lar  ole  Virginny  ; 
I  ain't  got  nothin'  fine,  ma'am — 'lessen  'tis  my 
Mercy.  I  do  count  her  'bout  ez  fine  a  young 
un  ez  steps  'long  our  parts.  Got  lots  o'  solid 
nat'ral  sense.  Not  ez  I  goes  in  fur  praisin' 
my  own  flesh  an'  blood." 

Mrs.  Abercrombie,  worldly  though  she 
might  be,  looked  in  appreciative  surprise  upon 
the  Captain  as  he  swelled  with  pleasure  and 
pride  at  thought  of  Mercy,  and  she  ^nd  her 
son  exchanged  glances. 


92  JACK  O'DOON. 

"  I  wish  it  were  possible  for  me  to  stay  aad 
see  more  of  you  ;  but  I  am  late  as  it  is,  and  I 
dared  allow  myself  but  two  minutes  to  meet 
you."  She  looked  at  her  watch,  suddenly  rec- 
ollecting the  dinner-party.  "  I  am  obliged  to 
say  good-bye  ;  but  some  day,  when  you're  in 
town,  you  will  let  me  have  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  you  again,  I  know." 

She  shook  hands  with  the  Captain,  who  was 
considering  her  appearance  with  a  good  deal 
of  wonder. 

Her  hair,  without  a  trace  of  silver  ;  her 
beautiful  white  throat,  relieved  by  lace  from 
too  severe  contrast  with  the  black  dress  ;  the 
elegance  and  grace  of  her  figure,  as  round 
and  erect  as  in  youth  ;  and  the  almost  lover- 
like pride  with  which  her  son  regarded  her, 
— were  altogether  different  from  the  Captain's 
preconceived  ideas  of  a  woman  of  fifty. 

For  once  in  his  life  he  cursed  his  luck  that 
he  had  not  Aunt  Polly  by  the  ear  to  say  to 
her,  "  I  told  you  so  !  "  However,  it  would 
bear  repeating. 

Algie  accompanied  his  mother  to  her  car- 
riage and  then  returned  to  escort  his  guest  to 
dinner. 

The  next  morning,  a  few  minutes  before 
train  time,  both  men  were  at  the  station  ready 
to  return  to  Cassandra  Bay. 

It  was  with  a  sigh  of  heartfelt  relief  that 
the  younger  man  turned  his  back  upon 
the  city,  with  its  life  of  debt  and  dissipation, 
and    abandoned     himself    to    the    enjoyment 


JACK  O'DOON.  g^ 

of  a  month's  immunity  from  care  and  temp- 
tation. 

He  was  free-hearted  and  lavish,  and  loved 
to  be  thought  well  of  by  others,  and  he  knew 
for  a  truth  that  his  injudicious  extravagances 
h^.d  been  for  the  benefit  of  others  rather  than 
himself;  but  his  heart  sickened  none  the  less 
at  the  harvest  which  awaited  him,  and  it  was 
with  satisfaction  that  he  left  his  own  home, 
with  its  singular  complication  of  pride,  affec- 
tion, affectation,  and  extravagance,  and  looked 
happily  forward  to  a  new  field,  where  none 
but  harmless  paths  enticed  his  steps  under 
the  reposeful  and  ennobling  influence  of 
Mercy's  presence  ;  for  if  Mercy  had  seemed 
brusque  and  self-asserting  to  him  at  first,  she 
had  lingered  in  his  memory  with  the  refresh- 
ment of  an  ocean  breeze  arousing  an  unknown 
energy.  Life  at  Blessington  House  had  a 
meaning,  and  each  individual  a  purpose  ; 
and  Algie,  whose  years  hitherto  had  been 
spent  in  getting  rid  of  time,  began  to  ex- 
perience a  new  and  different  interest  in  cast- 
ing his  lot  with  theirs,  or,  more  accurately, 
with  one  who,  young  as  she  was,  seemed  to 
have  accepted,  as  her  mission  in  life,  the  effort 
to  make  better,  by  the  stimulus  of  her  per- 
sonal sympathy,  all  who  came  about  her. 
He  dimly  realized  that  all  men  approach 
their  fellows  with  a  purpose, — the  purpose 
to  be  admired,  the  purpose  to  be  loved,  the 
purpose  to  rule.  Having  an  affectionate 
nature,    he   could   not   rest    satisfied  until  he 


94  JACK  O'DOON. 

made  the  thing  which  was  near  him  love 
him  ;  and  the  interest  which  he  had  devoted 
to  that  effort  even  he  had  mistaken  for  love. 
He  now  proposed  to  spend  a  month  in  the 
proximity  of  a  woman  too  noble  for  coquetry, 
and  too  generous  in  her  estimate  of  others 
not  to  give  him  more  credit  for  virtue  than  he 
deserved. 

In  their  mutual  relation,  she  was  interested, 
and  he  was  eager. 

Unquestionably  it  gave  her  pleasure  to  see 
the  easel  and  paint-box  in  the  corner,  where 
they  stood  in  surety  of  his  return. 

The  sun  was  shining,  but  the  ragged  clouds 
scudding  across  the  sea  gave  feeble  assur- 
ance of  spring  in  face  of  the  rigors  of  winter 
which  remained,  when  the  tramp  of  the  old 
horse  was  heard  upon  the  shells,  and  the 
Captain's  voice  shouting  for  Splugen. 

The  whole  house  revived  as  from  a  slumber. 
Sailor  wagged  his  tail  against  the  Captain's 
shins,  and  howled  with  joy  ;  the  green  parrot 
screamed,  and  moved  excitedly  from  one  leg 
to  the  other,  as  if  on  hot  iron  ;  Antonio  and 
Bill  Junk,  on  the  watch  for  something  to  turn 
up,  were  staring  out  of  the  window  with  their 
noses  flattened  against  the  pane.  Algie,  per- 
ceiving that  Mercy  and  Aunt  Polly  were 
above,  lifted  his  hat,  and  hurried  indoors  out 
of  the  wind. 


JACK  O'DOON. 


95 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

LGIE  looked    so    well-dressed    when 
he    entered     the    sitting-room    that 
Aunt    Polly    was  struck  mute    with 
surprise,    and    put    out    her    hand, 
almost  unwittingly,  to  greet  him. 

'•  I  hope  you  will  forgive  my  wearing  my 
overcoat  to  the  fire,  but  I  am  so  cold  !  "  said 
he,  shaking  hands  in  turn  with  each  of  the 
ladies.  After  a  few  moments  he  removed  the 
coat  and  threw  it  carelessly  over  the  back  of 
a  chair,  so  that  its  satin  lining  gleamed  in  the 
light,  while  he  stood  shivering  and  warming 
his  hands  over  the  grate.  He  was  excep- 
tionally well  dressed,  and  his  cut-away  fitted 
him  to  a  nicety.  His  hair,  fresh  from  the 
barber,  was  fine,  smooth,  gleaming,  and 
faintly  perfumed  ;  as  if  lately  washed  in  eau 
de  cologne,  and  of  a  beautiful  golden  red, — 
much  too  lovely  for  a  man  !  His  full  mous- 
tache, worn  rather  long,  and  his  firm,  almost 
obstinate  chin,  were  marked  features  of  a 
face  and  head  massively  put  together,  and 
well  set  upon  the  shoulders. 

'•  It  was  so  nice  of  you  to  come  back  to  do 
the  picture,"  said  Mercy,  with  a  kindliness 
which  showed  her  quite  mistress  of  the  situa- 


gS  JACK  O'DOOy. 

tion,  and  also  made  Algie  conscious  that  he 
had  left  no  impression  upon  her. 

His  vanity  was  piqued  to  its  supremest 
effort ;  and  he  felt  his  interest  increase  with 
the  sense  of  resistance. 

"  Work  in  any  other  form,  Miss  Blessington, 
was  never  a  temptation  to  me,"  said  he  gal- 
lantly, as  he  took  up  his  coat  to  lay  it  aside. 

"  Don't  trouble  about  the  coat,  Mr.  Aber- 
crombie,"  said  Aunt  Polly,  now  all  effusion, 
«'  Antonio  will  take  it  to  your  room,  and  the 
Captain  will  send  Splugen  for  your  luggage." 

"  You  are  much  kinder  to  me  than  I  de- 
serve  " 

"  There  ain't  no  use  talkui'  'bout  it,"  ex- 
claimed the  Captain,  jerking  the  door  open 
and  blustering  in  ;  "  I'll  be  sent  to  a  better 
place — "  (this  was  the  occasional  compromise 
under  Mercy's  efforts  to  reform  his  desire  to 
go  to  a  worse)  " — ef  I  ain't  a-gittin'  a  spell  o' 
rheumatiz  this  very  minute.  Mercy,  whar's 
that  gal  ?  Come  here  and  pull  off"  my  shoes. 
Where's  them  slippers  ?  " 

Mercy  brought  the  slippers  and,  much  to 
Algie's  astonishment,  sat  down  on  the  floor  at 
her  father's  feet. 

Aunt  Polly  detested  such  familiarity  and 
left  the  room.  Then  the  Captain  spread  him- 
self, like  a  vast  human  wonder,  in  his  big  chair 
before  the  fire,  and  there  seemed  nothing  left 
for  Algie  to  do  but  to  sit  down  in  another. 

With  the  unaffectedness  of  a  child  Mercy 
unlaced    her    father's    big  shoes,  exchanging 


JACK  O'DOON,  A 7 

them  for  his  sHppers,  and,  perhaps  out  ot  def- 
erence to  Algrie,  made  an  effort  to  arise. 

"  Rub  them  ankle-bones  1  "  cried  the  Cap- 
tain sententiously,  closing  his  eyes  and  turn- 
ing his  head  away  from  the  light.  Mercy  re- 
moved the  slippers  again  and  proceeded  to 
rub  her  father's  feet,  whilst  Algie  amused 
himselt  with  alternately  looking  into  the  fire 
and  studying  the  Captain,  until  at  length  his 
eyes  rested  upon  Mercy,  who  must  have  for- 
gotten him.  It  goaded  his  pride  that  she  should 
sit  cuddling  a  sleepy  old  man,  even  though  he 
were  her  father,  whilst  he,  the  invincible  Al- 
gernon Abercrombie,  w^as  present. 

After  a  while  it  struck  him  that  she  was 
very  patient  with  the  old  skipper  in  this  sin- 
gular demand  ;  though  it  exasperated  him  to 
see  her  scorching  her  face  painfully. 

He  did  not  remember  that  she  had  told  him 
she  gained  her  influence  with  her  father  in  big 
things  by  sacriflcing  herself  to  him  in  little 
things.  She  sat  down  near  him,  but,  after  a 
very  few  moments,  seemed  to  be  oblivious  to 
all  about  her.  He  wondered  if  this  habitual 
absent-mindedness  was  not  due  to  an  eftbrt 
her  mind  made  to  escape  from  irksome  and 
uncongenial  surroundings. 

Her  face  in  the  firelight  had  such  a  look  of 
sweet  endurance  as  to  confirm  the  thought, 
although  her  whole  manner,  when  speaking, 
tended  to  draw  his  attention  to  the  best  in 
the  people  and  things  about  her,  and  the  very 
effort  to  hide  her  own  individuality  threw  a 
7 


q8  jack  o'doon. 

veil    of    mystery    about    it    which    perplexed 
him. 

She  did  not  strike  him  as  "goody-good," 
but  as  having  that  sort  of  forbearance  which 
nothing  human  could  shock,  and  which  gave 
to  her  character  the  quality  of  moral  tough- 
ness. 

"  Shan't  I  ring  for  Antonio  ? "  inquired 
Mercy.  "Wouldn't  you  like  to  go  to  your 
room  and  rest  for  a  few  moments  ?  I  fear 
you  will  find  it  stupid  here  ;  for  father  always 
sleeps  an  hour  at  least  when  he  has  been  out 
in  the  cold." 

"  Oh  !  "  replied  Algie,  delighted  at  the  pros- 
pect, "  I  had  much  rather  spend  that  hour 
with  you,  even  in  grim  silence." 

"  I  can  amuse  myself  with  my  knitting," 
said  Mercy. 

"  Do  you  knit  every  day  ?  "  inquired  Algie. 
"Such  stupid  work  !  "  he  added,  with  a  man's 
contempt  for  monotony. 

"  No,  indeed  !  "  said  she,  "  I  am  so  fond  of 
reading,  that  I  read  or  study  every  day  ;  but 
when  I  am  worried  or  uneasy — and  we,  who 
have  friends  at  sea,  must  be  so  at  times — I 
knit,  because  the  stupid  repetition  seems  to 
rest  my  brain." 

"  Your  father  brought  you  no  news  ;  but 
«  no  news  is  good  news,'  "  said  he  kindly. 

"  If  you  comfort  me  with  proverbs,  I  must 
answer  that  •  hope  deferred  maketh  the  heart 
sick.'" 

•*  What    use    can    you    make    of    so    much 


JACK  O'DOON.  gg 

knitted  work  ?  "  said  Algie,  anxious  to  change 
the  subject, 

"  Oh,  I  knit  these  long  comforters,  and  the 
men  take  them  to  sea.  I  think  they  have  a 
httle  sentiment  about  my  work,  although  per- 
haps that  is  vanity.  When  it  happens  that 
they  never  come  back  again,  I  am  glad  that  I 
gave  them  a  piece  of  my  own  work  before 
they  went." 

'•  You  must  think  about  such  lots  of  things 
when  you  are  knitting,  only  I  can't  conceive 
what  you  can  have  to  think  about,  your  life  is 
so  lonely." 

"  I  am  not  necessarily  lonely  because  I  am 
isolated,"  said  Mercy,  looking  up  surprised, 
and  encountering  a  commiserating  sympathy 
in  his  eyes  which  made  her  drop  her  own  ; 
but  she  immediately  aroused  herself  to  resist 
his  influence,  and  added,  "  so  long  as  I  know 
that  some  one  depends  upon  me,  I  can  never 
feel  quite  useless  or  alone.  The  necessities  of 
others  make  me  a  necessity  to  my  position.  I 
have  no  time  to  be  idle,  therefore  no  time  to 
be  lonely." 

Algie  withheld  a  hasty  compliment,  which 
seemed  too  trivial  to  offer  to  one  so  in  earnest. 

If  Algie  thought  her  life  lonely,  he  might 
have  suspected  that  words  of  appreciation 
were  rarer  still  than  friends. 

But  Mercy's  character  seemed  so  well 
balanced  and  complete,  that,  out  of  the  very 
reverence  he  felt  for  her,  he  ignored  the  nat- 
ural craving  of  her  human  necessities.     Thus 


I  oo  J  A  CK  O'DOON. 

it  seems  at  times,  that  those  who  struggle 
after  a  high  ideal  must  be  satisfied  to  meet 
with  no  other  approval  than  that  of  their  own 
consciences. 

"  Is  there  a  fire  in  the  other  room  ?  "  he 
asked  abruptly,  indicating  the  one  containing 
her  father's  collection. 

"  No,"  said  Mercy,  "  would  you  like  one  ?  " 
"  Oh,  no,  I  only  thought  that  if  there  were,  we 
might  look  over  the  things  together  ;  but  I 
like  it  immensely  here  with  you,  and,  if  you 
don't  mind,  while  you  knit,  I  will  sketch  you 
in  my  book.  I  will  be  so  silent  that  you 
could  think  the  sky  full  of  thoughts.  So  say- 
ing, Algie  took  a  book  from  his  pocket,  and, 
sharpening  his  pencil  bluntly,  put  in  a  very 
broad  line  sketch. 

"  Do  you  always   carry   a  book  ?  " 

"Yes,  it  is  such  fine  practice,  and  then,  too,  it 
is  pleasant  to  be  able  to  illustrate  accounts  of 
my  expeditions  when  I  get  home,  especially  to 
mother.  For  exam.ple,  if  I  told  her  that  your 
father  was  asleep  in  his  chair,  and  you  were 
sitting  beside  him  knitting  yarn  comforters, 
and  making  me  feel  very  happy  and  at  home 
near  you,  my  words  would  not  make  half  the 
impression  which  this  little  sketch  would." 

"Do  you  know,"  said  Mercy  naively,  "  that 
I  have  always  so  longed  to  know  an  artist  ? 
I  am  so  fond  of  pictures,  and  there  seems  such 
a  mystery  in  their  creation,  that  it  is  quite  an 
ideal  thing  for  me  to  have  you  thus  sitting  be- 
side the  fire  and  sketching  even   me,  without 


JACK  O'DOON,  jOi 

jarring  in  the  least  upon  my  humdrum  life  ; 
except  that  I  have  dropped  this  stitch  through 
thinking  of  your  work  instead  of  mine," 

"  I  wish  you  would  drop  it  all  through  such 
a  fault  !  "  exclaimed  Algie  impulsively. 

Mercy  looked  at  him  with  a  smile  and 
said  :  "  I  might,  if  you  held  the  key  of  the 
North  Pole,  and  could  promise  there  should 
be  no  more  cold  noses  or  aching  ears.  But 
since  you  cannot,  I  shall  have  to  pick  it  up 
again." 

If  she  had  simpered,  Algie  would  have  been 
bored,  but  the  fact  that  his  flattery  w^as  ridic- 
ulous to  her  nettled  him. 

"  When  we  get  father's  room  all  to  rights, 
you  can  always  come  here  and  paint  when- 
ever you  want  to  sketch  at  Cassandra.  We'd 
all  like  it,  you  know.  It'll  be  much  better 
than  tumbling  around  in  the  wind  on  the  top 
of  a  sand-hill.  Moreover,  I'm  going  to  watch 
you  paint,  and  then  I  shall  try  too." 

It  touches  a  man  at  his  weakest  to  be 
imitated  by  any  one,  but  when  his  mim.ic  is  a 
young  and  pretty  girl  it  turns  his  brain.  Algie 
cast  upon  Mercy,  quite  thoughtlessly,  another 
of  his  tender  glances. 

"  You  think  you  can  persuade  your  father 
to  let  us,  don't  you  ?  "  A  slight  softening  of 
the  voice  made  that  "us  "  sound  very  pleasant 
in  Mercy's  ear.  The  exchange  of  you  and  me, 
for  we  and  us,  was  an  appreciable  pleasure  to 
Algie,  which  Mercy  perceived  without  under- 
standing ;    though  she  blushed    slightly,   and 


I02  JACK  O'DOON. 

his  heart,  which  had  been  warming  steadily, 
melted  as  it  had  done  so  often  before. 

Ere  the  drowsy  old  Captain  awoke,  Algie, 
without  thought  of  harm,  but  prompted  by  the 
desire  to  be  fully  in  sympathy  with  all  who 
came  near  him,  had  exerted  himself  to  impress 
a  nature  which  was  not  susceptible,  but  which, 
having  conceived,  never  lost  even  the  memory 
of  an  affection  ;  whilst  he,  luxuriating  in  the 
love  he  habitually  inspired,  took  no  thought 
of  the  future,  and  could  not  believe  that  he 
must  hoard  his  friends  as  well  as  his  money 
against  a  day  of  want.  It  was  quite  sufficient 
for  him  to  be  happy.  At  that  moment  he  de- 
sired nothing  more  for  happiness  than  to  have 
Mercy  beside  him,  developing  new  charms  for 
himself  alone. 

Something  of  this  happiness  was  visible  in 
the  little  sketch  growing  under  his  pencil,  for 
even  that  was  lovingly  done.  He  had  put 
into  it  the  grace  of  Mercy's  bending  head,  and 
her  own  sweet  look  of  protective  benignity,  as 
if  her  heart  were  a  sanctuary  where  the  weary 
found  help  to  rest  them,  and  the  disappointed, 
the  wicked,  or  the  wavering  might  find  con- 
solation or  encouragement  to  do  better. 

At  times  a  pang  of  remprse  tightened  the 
chords  of  her  heart,  for,  whilst  she  hoped  for 
the  best  for  poor  Jack,  there  arose  between 
her  and  her  memories  of  him,  mingling  with 
her  sorrow,  a  faint  sweet  sense  of  satisfaction 
in  the  present,  which  the  loyalty  of  her  heart 
resented. 


J  A  CK  O'DOON.  1 03 

Had  Mercy  known  more  of  the  world  and 
understood  that  sincerity  was  no  proof  of  con- 
stancy ;  that  the  meteor,  while  it  lasts,  is  just 
as  real  as  the  star, — she  would  have  been  on 
the  defensive  ;  but,  by  defending  herself,  she 
would  have  lost  the  confiding  innocence  which 
was  her  charm  in  Algie's  eyes. 

He  continued  silent  and  absorbed,  finishing 
his  sketch,  with  Mercy  knitting  quietly  near 
him,  till  the  Captain  awoke  with  a  start  which 
brought  him  to  his  feet. 

"  Father,"  said  Mercy,  "we've  been  laying 
a  trap  for  you  !  " 

"Well,"  said  he,  with  a  growl,  "is  that 
anything  new  ?  " 

"  Yes,  very  new  indeed  ;  we  want  to  get  up 
a  studio." 

"  What  the  devil  is  that  for  ?  "  he  exclaimed 
in  astonishment. 

"  Because  I  want  to  le-arn  to  paint,  and 
while  Mr.  Abercrombie  is  here  it  would  be  so 
awfully  nice  if  you  would  let  us  have  your 
room  for  him  to  paint  my  picture  in.  We 
would  put  all  of  your  things  in  order  and 
make  it  so  comfortable.  Now,  it's  a  regular 
old  caravansary." 

"  Them  things  pleases  me  jest  so,"  said  the 
Captain  demurely,  feeling  rather  insulted. 

"But  they'd  do  you  much  more  good  if 
they  were  dusted  and  hung  up  ;  and  when 
your  old  friends  came  to  visit  you,  they  would 
see  that  you  set  some  store  by  their  presents. 


1 04  J  A  CK  O'DOON. 

Indeed,  it  would  be  a  great  thing  for  you  if 
you  only  knew  it  !  " 

"  Lord,  jest  hear  her  talk  !  "  cried  the  skip- 
per, looking  helplessly  from  one  to  the  other. 

"  Yes,"  said  Algie  sympathetically. 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  a  gal  talk  like  that  ?  " 
her  father  asked,  looking  for  protection — even 
beguiled  into  imploring  it — from  Algie. 

"  Never,"  said  the  young  man  gravely. 

"  No,  nor  nobody  else,"  said  the  Captain, 
sitting  down.  "  A  stoody  fur  me  !  when  it 
takes  purty  nigh  all  the  strength  an'  enter- 
prise I  got  to  keep  alongside  o'  her  !  Confound 
it,  I  couldn't  do  nothin'  with  it  ef  I  had  it." 

"  It  would  be  a  good  place  to  eat  apples," 
suggested  Mercy. 

The  Captain  wiped  his  spectacles,  after 
taking  them  down  from  the  top  of  his  head,  put 
them  on  again,  and  looked  at  her  in  surprise. 

•'  I  can  eat  apples,  or  anything  else  con- 
venient, right  whar  I  be,  always  providin'  I 
got  an  apple  and  an  appetite." 

"  I  don't  mean  to  lim.it  you  ;  I  only  mean 
that  while  Mr.  Abercrombie  paints,  you  can 
eat  apples  or  smoke,  or  otherwise  entertain 
me,  to  induce  a  smiling  expression." 

"  Why  can't  we  do  jest  the  sam.e  right 
here  ?  " 

"  Because  there  are  so  many  interruptions 
all  the  time,  and  not  space  enough.  Mr. 
Abercombie  would  be  certain  to  tread  upon 
Aunt  Polly's  toes." 

"  I  wish  to  the  Lord  he  would  !  "  exclaimed 


JACK  O'DOON.  lo; 

the  Captain  devoutly.  After  a  moment's  silence 
he  added,  "  I'll  be  blowed,  if  I  won't  thank 
the  Lord  Almighty  when  I  kin  git  a  place  to 
myself ;  if  it  ain't  mor'n  six  feet  long  ;  whar, 
when  I  do  settle  down,  there  won't  be  nobody 
to  pester  me  !  Why,  Mr.  What's-yer-name. 
there  ain't  been  a  day  sence  this  here  Mercy's 
been  born,  that  she  ain't  imposed  on  me  for 
somethin'.  Little  or  big,  it's  etarnal  some- 
thin'.  When  she  was  a  baby,  she  begun  it 
with  cryin'  for  a  coral  stick  ofTn  my  watch- 
chain  what  I  was  a-carryin'  for  luck,  an'  she 
would  have  it,  an'  I  give  in  !  She  got  it, 
'cause  I  was  afeared  she  would  die  if  she 
didn't  git  it  ;  and  it's  jest  got  to  be  all  my 
life's  worth  to  cross  her.  Ef  she's  sot  her 
heart  on  a  thing  she  can't  rest,  nor  let  no 
body  rest,  'tell  she's  got  it.  Now  this  here 
pictur'  o'  yourn  is  a  fair  sam.ple  o'  her  doin's. 
She's  jest  a  turnin'  of  me  bodily  out'n  the 
house,  and  me  gittin   old  too." 

"  It  dees  look  like  it,"  said  Algie  solemnly. 

Tears  sprang  into  Mercy's  eyes,  and  her 
mouth  quivered  like  a  child's. 

The  Captain  looked  from  one  to  the  other 
scowling.  This  remark  of  Algie's  show^ed 
very  clever  insight  into  the  character  of  the 
skipper  ;  for  as  soon  as  he  found  anyone  will- 
ing to  take  part  against  Mercy,  he  turned 
bodily  over  to  her  side  whether  the  argument 
was  for  or  against  himself. 

"  Humph  !  "  said  the  skipper  ;  "  what  did 
you  say,  young  man  ?  " 


Io6  JACK  O' DOOM. 

"I  said  it  did  look  a  little  that  way," 
replied  Algie,  deprecatingly. 

"  Well,  I  don't  exactly  know,  young  man, 
whether  it  do  or  not.  Speak  up,  Mercy,  ain't 
you  got  no  tongue  ?  Do  you  mean  to  sit  thar, 
and  hear  this  here  young  man  accusin'  you  o' 
turnin'  your  ole  daddy  out  o'  doors  ?  What's 
you  got  to  say  for  yerse'f  ?  " 

"You  know  I  don't,"  replied  Mercy,  almost 
with  a  sob,  and  furtively  drying  her  tears. 
"  I  want  to  turn  you  in  ;  for  you  never  go  in 
there  now,  except  to  take  some  old  sailor  to 
see  a  tortoise-shell,  or  a  tish-net  ;  and,  if  we 
could  make  it  pleasant,  you  could  get  out  of 
the  way  when  things  are  not  quite  right 
here." 

"  Then  where  the  devil  would  you  go  ? 

"  Of  course  I'd  go  there  with  you.  It's 
big  enough  for  two  of  us,  gracious  knows  !  " 

"  Now  why  couldn't  you  say  that  at  first," 
exclaimed  the  Captain,  smiling  suddenly. 
"  You're  a  sharp  young  one,  jest  fixin'  a  way 
to  git  rid  o'  Polly.  I  know'd  it  !  Take  me 
for  findin'  out  what  a  gal's  up  to  !  " 

He  chuckled  delightedly  to  himself,  and 
turned  half  round  to  the  others,  bubbling  over 
with  satisfaction.  "  Why  can't  you  speak 
confidential-like  to  your  ole  daddy,  an'  not  be 
a-makin'  a  strange  young  man  think  you're 
tryin*  to  hurry  him  off  ?  " 

"  You  dear  old  darling,  you  will,  won't 
you  ?  "  cried  Mercy,  jumping  up  and  throw- 
ing   her  arms   around   his    neck,    and  giving 


JACK  O'DOON.  107 

him  two  sounding  kisses,  at  which  Algie 
almost  fainted. 

"  Now  did  you  ever  see  the  Hkes  o'  that  ?  " 
inquired  the  Captain  with  pride,  turning  a 
beaming  countenance  upon  Algie,  who  ad- 
mitted that  he  had  never  been  obHged  to 
witness  anything  of  that  sort  before.  The 
old  fellow  enjoyed  being  the  hero  of  domestic 
episodes,  though  he  assumed  a  look  of  endur- 
ance which  was  almost  tragic. 

"  Young  man,"  said  he  severely,  "  take  my 
advice,  and  don't  never  let  yourse'f  begin  to 
be  bossed  by  a  woman,  for  jest '  as  the  twig  is 
bent  the  tree  inclines.'" 

"Yes,"  said  Algie  demurely,  "  but  I  can't 
say  I'd  mind  being  bent  that  way." 

"Say  you're  going  to  let  us,"  insisted 
Mercy. 

"  Did  I  ever  have  a  say  about  nothin', — 
ever  once,  sence  you  was  born  ?  " 

"  Well,  granted.  Will  you  wait  to  begin 
next  time  ?  " 

"  Lord-a-massy,   I   never  seed  sich   a  gal  ! 

Talk  about  wills  ;  there    ain't    no    man    livin' 

what    can    hold  a  candle    'longside    o'    some 

women.        They're    that      persistent    they're 

ejus  ! 

"  But  you  say  yes,  and  it'll  be  over  with." 

"  It's  worse  than  havin'  a  tooth  pulled,  I 
declar  !  I  ain't  had  no  time  to  consider. 
But  it's  a  clean  waste  of  breath  to  argue  a 
p'int  with  a  woman.  They  ain't  got  no  judg- 
ment.    What  the  Lord  ever  made  a  man  with 


Io8  JACK  O' BOON. 

two  women  for,  I  don't  know.  Here's  my 
Mercy,  insistin'  all  the  week,  and  Polly  with 
her  prayer-book,  exortin'  all  of  a  Sunday.  I 
ain't  even  got  no  prospect  o' peace.  For  Mer- 
cy's a-persecutin'  me  for  my  worldly  posses- 
sions from  Monday  mornin'  'tell  Sadday  night, 
and  Polly  is  a-tellin'  of  me  all  day  Sunday 
that  I  ain't  got  no  treasure  laid  up  nowhar. 
I'll  be  damned  if  they  leaves  me  even  a  ex- 
pectation of  a  chance !  " 

•'  It  is  pretty  rough,"  replied  Algie. 

••  I  should  think  it  were  ;  and,  young  man, 
jest  you  take  a  ole  man's  advice  and  let  'em 
alone.     Let  'em  alone  !  " 

"That's  easier  said  than  done,"  said  the 
young  man. 

"  You're  right  about  that.  For  I  tell  you, 
if  you  give  'em  a  inch,  they're  sure  to  take  a 
ell,  and  it's  a  long  ways  the  best  sailin'  not 
to  give  'em  no  inch.  Tack  about,  but  don't 
let  'em  land  you  nowhars  !  " 

•'  Well,  if  that  is  what  you  really  think,  and 
you  don't  care  anything  about  me,  I  can  let 
you  alone,"  said  Mercy. 

"  Who  said  I  wa'nt  goin'  to  let  you  have  no 
inch  ?  I  was  advisin'  this  here  young  gentle- 
man for  his  own  good.  Ain't  I  dun  let  you 
take  my  room,  and  all  my  things  for  a  stoody  ? 
Ain't  I  goin'  to  have  you  a  pretty  pictur' 
painted  ?  Who  says  I  ain't  willin'to  give  you 
the  las'  cent  I  got,  ef  I  had  to  go  a  thousan' 
miles  to  fetch  it.  And,  positively,  I  ain't  al- 
lowed so  much  as  the  privilege  o'  complainin'  !  " 


J  A  CK  O'DOON.  I  on 

"  Oh,  he  should,  that  he  should  !  "  cried 
Mercy,  cuddling  him,  "but  all  the  same,  we 
may  have  the  room  ?  " 

"Ain't  I  said  Yes  ?  How  many  times  is  I 
got  to  repeat  it  ?  You  know  you  ain't  a-goin' 
to  leave  off  'tell  you  get  yer  way,  and  what's 
the  use  o'  so  much  pesterin'  ?  " 

"Yes,  but  I  don't  want  any  such  stingy 
giving." 

"  Well,  jest  go  ahead,  I  ain't  partic'lar," 
the  old  man  replied,  after  a  moment  of  medi- 
tation, during  which  Mercy  had  been  draw- 
ing her  fingers  through  his  hair,  and  a  smile 
ot  contentment  slowly  diffusing  itself  over  his 
face. 

"  I  wonder  if  women  are  such  dreadful 
creatures  after  all,"  said  she  sceptically,  lean- 
ing upon  the  back  of  her  father's  chair,  and 
continuing  to  stroke  his  hair. 

"Whar's  my  pipe?"  suddenly  asked  the 
Captain,  ignoring  her  query. 

She  filled  it  and  brought  it  to  him  and  re- 
sumed her  position,  while  the  skipper  lay 
smiling  indulgently,  occasionally  rubbing  his 
chin. 

"  Don't  you  smoke  ?  "  said  Mercy  to  Algie. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  he  replied,  producing  a  cigarette. 

"Well,  go  ahead,"  said  the  Captain,  "  we 
ain't  got  no  objections." 

So  the  two  men  puffed  away  in  the  twilight, 
while  Mercy  continued  to  stroke  her  father's 
hair  until  Antonio  came  in  to  air  the  room 
and  lay  the  table  for  dinner. 


no  JACK  O'DOON. 

"  Fetch  her  out,  Tony,"  said  the  Captain 
briefly,  and  Antonio  set  a  little  table  along- 
side of  him,  and  placed  the  decanter  and 
tumblers  upon  it. 

"  Ain't  you  got  no  water  for  the  young 
man  ?  He's  young,  Tony,  he  don't  want  noth- 
in'  hot." 

A  moment  later,  Tony  fetched  a  large 
brown  stone  jug  of  water.  "  Say  when  !  "  ex- 
claimed the  Captain,  pausing  in  uncertainty 
over  the  fifth  glass. 

"  Oh,  very  little  for  me,"  said  Algie. 

"  Well,  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  press  you,  you  kin 
bet  your  bottom  dollar  on  that."  So  the  skip- 
per poured  into  the  fifth  glass  what  he  con- 
sidered a  homoeopathic  quantity  of  gin,  and 
an  allopathic  dilution  of  water,  just  as  he 
would  have  mixed  them  for  a  child. 

"  Here's   luck  to   our  picture,"  said   Algie. 

"  And  to  the  very  fust  woman  you  kin  find, 
what  can't  git  her  own  way  !  " 

Algie  smiled  and  drank,  and  slightly  nod- 
ded to  Mercy,  who  was  looking  on. 

"  Now,  Tony,  say  it's  luck,"  said  the  skipper 
affably,  pointing  downwards. 

Antonio  was  disappearing  with  the  three 
tumblers,  when  Mercy  reminded  him  that 
Mr.  Abercrombie  had  not  yet  been  shown  his 
room. 


J  A  CK  O'DOON.  Ill 


CHAPTER  IX. 


HE  chamber  was   large  and  square. 

A     warm    tire     glowed     upon     the 

I   hearth,    and  Algie,    left  to    himself, 

stood  before  it,  meditating  upon  the 

simplicity   of  the    people  amongst    whom   he 

had  been  thrown. 

After  a  while  he  turned  and  looked  about 
him  at  the  quaint  old  furniture.  One  thing 
which  surprised  him  was,  that,  throughout 
the  house,  in  unexpected  places,  there  ap- 
peared strong  touches  of  original  artistic  dec- 
oration.    In  this  room  it  was  most  apparent. 

A  great  four-posted  bedstead  supported  a 
huge  feather-bed.  At  the  foot  of  this  struc- 
ture was  a  flight  of  steps  covered  with  a  car- 
pet of  crimson  velvet.  The  bed  was  flounced 
around  with  a  petticoat  of  Nile-green  cam- 
bric, over  which  a  netted  fringe  fell  to  the  floor, 
with  bunchy  little  tassels,  tipping  in  a  row, 
like  a  procession  of  dolls.  A  similar  netting 
fell  from  the  tester,  over  long  green  curtains, 
tied  back  to  the  posts  with  huge  red  bows. 
The  great  flufl"y  pillows  had  no  vulgar  cover 
of  shams,  but  were  meant  to  be  slept  upon, 
and  promised  dreamless  and  comforting 
sleep. 


112  JACK  O'DOON. 

The  floor  was  covered  with  a  red  carpet, 
thick  and  soft,  which  glowed  in  the  firelight. 
Algie,  loving  the  pleasantness  of  the  dim 
light,  had  extinguished  the  candles  and  yield- 
ed to  the  sense  of  repose  which  was  due  to 
the  warmth  and  softness  of  his  surroundings. 

He  became  so  lost  in  thought,  that  it  did 
not  seem  five  minutes  ere  Antonio  knocked 
gently  at  the  door  and  called  him  to  dinner. 

When  he  descended  to  the  dining-room. 
Aunt  Polly  was  waiting,  stiff  and  prim. 
Mercy  came  in  smiling.  Her  face  took  on 
wonderful  changes.  To-night  the  expression 
was  of  bright  and  intense  intelligence,  and  it 
seemed  to  Algie  that  the  radiance  of  her 
countenance  shone  upon  him  when  the 
features  were  making  no  impression.  She 
had  more  color  than  usual,  which  mcreased 
the  brightness  of  her  eyes  ;  and  her  hair, 
brushed  a  little  to  one  side,  added  to  her  in- 
tellectual appearance. 

"  How  shall  I  ever  paint  her  ?  "  thought  he, 
regarding  her  with  critical  admiration.  "She 
is  not  beautilul,  but  so  varying,  that  I  have 
not  seen  her  twice  the  same." 

*•  What  a  very  pleasant  room  you  have 
given  me  !  "  said  he  to  Aunt  Polly. 

"  You  must  remember  what  you  dream 
to-night,"  said  Mercy  mysteriously.  "  You 
know  this  is  Friday,  and  whatever  you  dream 
in  a  strange  place  on  Friday  night  always 
comes  true.  Be  sure  you  keep  half  your 
senses  awake  to  remember  what    the   other 


J  A  CK  O'DOON.  I  1 2 

half  dreams  ;  because  in  the  morning  I  shall 
require  you  to  render  an  account  of  your 
stewardship." 

«' Oh,  that's  cruel,"  said  Algie.  "I  en- 
joyed so  much  the  thought,  this  bleak  night, 
of  sleeping  in  a  feather-bed  I  Who  ever 
dreamed  in  one  ?  They  always  carry  me 
back  to  the  country  inns  in  England.  I  re- 
member particularly  the  old  Shakespeare  Inn 
at  Stratford-on-Avon,  how  I  sank  into  some- 
thing like  oblivion  in  that  feather-bed  !  " 

"  No,  I'm  inexorable  ;  there  must  be  no 
oblivion  this  time.  All  the  properties  in  that 
room  are  mine.  They  were  left  me  by  my 
godmother,  and  I  demand  toll  out  of  every- 
body's dreams,"  replied  Mercy  impressively. 

"  You  ought  to  write  them  in  a  book,"  said 
Algie,  "  they  would  be  better  reading  than 
ghost  stories." 

"I  reckon  they  would,  young  man,  ef  all 
the  folks  was  as  fond  o'  lobster  salad  ez  you 
is  !  "  interposed  the  Captain,  helping  himself 
abundantly  for  the  third  time. 

"  At  all  events,  remember  I'm  not  joking," 
said  Mercy,  quite  seriously. 

'•  Are  you  superstitious  ?  "  asked  Algie. 

"No,  I  think  not,  but  when  my  godmother 
hrst  left  me  those  things  I  dreamed  a  very 
strange  dream,  which  was  repeated  in  all  its 
details  night  after  night,  until  I  abandoned  the 
room,  because  it  was  so  uncanny  I  attributed 
it  to  reading  Voltaire's  L' Incoji?iu.  This  is 
Friday.  Your  dream  will  come  true  !  " 
8 


114  JACK  O'DOON. 

The  girl  became  more  and  more  strange  to 
him. 

How  on  earth  had  she  come  to  be  reading 
Voltaire,  and  who  had  taught  her  P'rench  ?  He 
looked  at  her  inquiringly. 

"  Are  you  wondering  it"  I  am  humbugging 
you  ?  No  ;  I  never,  even  in  fun,  say  things  1 
don't  mean,"  said  Mercy. 

"No,"  replied  Algie,  "I  was  wondering 
who  put  you  in  the  way  of  reading  French, 
when  you  say  you  have  lived  here  always." 

"Oh,  is  that  all  ?  "  she  answered,  with  a 
smile  of  amusement.  "Since  I  know  how  to 
read  English,  with  the  help  of  a  dictionary 
and  grammar,  I  can  learn  to  read  any  language. 
One  winter,  I  learned  a  French  grammar  by 
heart,  and  wrote  all  the  exercises  ;  and  the 
next  summer  I  read  six  or  seven  French  books, 
and  by  the  time  I  had  finished  that  task,  I 
knew  so  many  words  and  idioms  I  scarcely 
needed  a  dictionary  at  all.  That's  simple 
enough,  isn't  it  ?  Now  I'm  studying  Italian  on 
the  same  plan,  and  next  year  I  mean  to  tackle 
German,  and,  although  I  don't  know  a  sound, 
I  can  read  and  write  anything  I  want  to,  and 
I  shall  feel  quite  prepared  to  take  father  and 
Aunt  Polly  in  my  arms  and  fly  all  over  the 
world  with  them  !  You  needn't  laugh;  much 
stranger  things  have  happened  !  " 

Algie  was  not  laughing  to  ridicule  the 
girl.  Her  Quixotic  perseverance  seemed  an- 
omalous to  him,  and  he  smiled  at  her  enthus- 
iasm. 


JACK  O'DOON.  U^ 

"  Is  that  the  way  you  amuse  yourself  here 
when  you  get  storm-bound  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Yes  ;  I  Hke  reading,  I  get  so  tired  of  my- 
self." 

"  It's  nothing  but  selfishness,  all  said 
and  done,"  exclaimed  Aunt  Polly  severely. 
"  You're  either  buried  in  a  book,  or  building 
castles  on  a  knitting-needle,  or  wandering 
about  the  beaches  as  if  you  were  pos- 
sessed !  " 

"  Do  you  think  so,  really,  Aunt  Polly  ?  " 
asked  Mercy,  distressed. 

"  Of  course  I  do.  The  first  thing  you  know, 
you'll  be  talking  to  yourself,  like  old  Granny 
Gooch  !  " 

Mercy's  brow  clouded. 

"  Do  ye  mean  to  say  my  child's  like  old 
Betsy  Gooch  ?  "  demanded  the  Captain  ag- 
gressively, peering  round  the  caster  at  Aunt 
Polly,  that  useful  article  being  placed  in  the 
centre  of  the  table  and  forming  a  screen  be- 
tween them. 

"  I  said  she  was  so  absent-minded,  she'd 
soon  be  like  Granny  Gooch,  and  wander  about 
talking  to  herself." 

"  Mercy,  my  gal,"  said  the  Captain,  looking 
at  her  inquiringly  over  his  spectacles,  "when 
ye  ain't  got  nobody  to  talk  to,  jes  ye  come  to 
yer  old  daddy  ef  you're  lonesome  like.  He's 
alius  ready  to  entertain  ye;  there  ain't  no  use 
a-wastin'  time  a-talkin'  to  yerself." 

Mercy  looked  lovingly  at  her  father,  who 
had  evidently  been  so  interested  in  a  pudding 


Il6  JACK  O'DOON. 

that  he  had  not  quite   caught  the  drift  of  the 
conversation. 

When  dinner  was  over  they  all  turned  round 
to  the  fire.  The  Captain  smoked  his  pipe  in 
silence,  and  Algie  lighted  one  cigarette  with 
another.  Mercy  resumed  her  eternal  knitting. 
Such  Algie  thought  it. 

Aunt  Polly,  overlooking  the  morning's  paper, 
very  soon  began  sneezing  and  coughing, 
until  the  Captain  turned  upon  her  with  a 
sardonic  smile,  saying,— 

"  Just  make  the  most  of  it,  Polly  ;  we're 
goin'  to  fix  up  a  stoody  ter-morrow  for  our- 
selves, and  after  that  I  don't  reckon  we'll  have 
no  more  'casion  to  trouble  ye  a-smokin'  in 
here." 

Aunt  Polly  allowed  a  faint  quiver  of  derision 
to  pass  over  her  lips,  and  then  left  the  room, 
sneezing  violently. 

All  said  "  Good-night  "  very  early,  Algie 
leaving  the  Captain  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  ; 
but  for  some  minutes  longer  he  could  hear 
him  blustering  about,  shouting  to  the  men 
below  to  "Outen  them  lights,"  to  which  came 
the  nautical  reply,  "Aye,  aye,  sir."  Then  he 
talked  a  little  to  Sailor,  who  had  come  up- 
stairs to  prowl  around,  and  woke  the  parrot 
from  a  nap  on  its  tin  bar.  The  bird's  screams 
so  exasperated  the  dog  that  he  barked  vio- 
lently, and  Bill  Junk  cursed  the  parrot,  and 
the  Captain  swore  at  the  whole  lot,  until,  fi- 
nally, the  lights  were  put  out,  and  everything 
became  silent,  save  for  the  sounds  of  the  Cap^ 


JACK  O' BOON.  11*^ 

tain  stumbling  up  the  stairs  in  the  dark,  with 
his  shoes  in  his  hand,  to  prove  to  himself  that 
he  was  as  still  as  death. 

Algie,  having  m.ade  himself  ready  for  bed, 
blew  out  the  candle  and  sat  down  in  the  arm- 
chair before  the  fire. 

Mercy's  dream  recurred  to  him,  and  he 
looked  at  the  bed  with  a  little  misgiving. 
At  length  he  smiled  at  the  absurdity  of  such 
superstition. 

"  As  if  a  comfortable  old  bed  could  make 
people  dream  dreams  !  "  he  ejaculated. 

He  was  luxuriously  clad  in  pajamas  of 
India  silk,  and,  feeling  too  inert  to  go  to  bed^ 
stretched  his  feet  toward  the  fire,  and  mused. 

A  screen  stood  before  the  washstand,  which 
might  have  been  Mercy's  work,  and  was  cov- 
ered with  pictures  and  verses  gathered  ap- 
parently at  random.  One  verse,  pasted  in  a 
corner,  had  attracted  his  attention.  It  was 
familiar  enough,  but  now  its  meaning  was 
more  significant  to  him.  There  was  plainly 
an  untrodden  spot  in  Algie's  heart  which  was 
opening  to  an  unexpected  guest. 

"  She  doeth  little  kindnesses, 

Which  most  leave  undone,  or  despise  ; 
For  naught  that  sets  one  heart  at  ease, 
And  giveth  happiness  or  peace. 
Is  low  esteemed  in  her  eyes." 

Lowell. 

This  quality,  as  he  saw  it  embodied  in 
Mercy's  character,  made  Algie  pause  to  re- 
flect ere  he  blindly  wandered  into  what  he 
would   have  ordinarily  considered   a  passing 


Il8  JACK  O' BOON. 

flirtation.  "  She's  too  deeply  in  earnest  in 
all  she  feels  and  does  I  "  he  murmured. 

He  represented  to  himself  sophistically  that 
he  was  there  for  business  only  ;  but  he  ad- 
mitted the  propriety  of  being  very  cautious. 

"  No,  she's  too  good  for  any  trifling,"  he 
repeated  virtuously,  again  and  again,  until  at 
last,  feeling  in  a  particularly  self-denying  and 
peaceful  frame  of  mind,  he  went  to  bed. 

There  was  certainly  something  peculiar  in 
the  room  ;  but  it  was  a  pleasant  peculiarity. 
The  fine  linen  sheets,  as  light  as  silk,  smelled 
of  withered  rose  leaves,  and  carried  him  back 
to  the  sunny  gardens  of  Adrianople.  Sunk  in 
the  downy  depths  of  the  feather-bed,  listening 
to  the  bleak  wind  whistling  outside,  Algie  en- 
joyed the  consciousness  of  his  own  snug  com- 
fort within,  until,  weary  with  listening,  he  fell 
so  soundly  asleep  that  even  the  noise  which 
the  Captain  made  stalking  downstairs  in  the 
morning  did  not  awaken  him  ;  and  there 
were  long  gleams  of  light,  making  stripes 
across  the  curtains,  ere  he  rubbed  his  eyes 
and  reluctantly  admitted  that  it  was  time  to 
get  up. 

Lying  back  again  upon  the  pillows,  he  re- 
membered that  he  had  dreamed,  and  it  was 
not  altogether  a  pleasant  dream  that  he  was 
bound  to  tell  Mercy. 

"You  look  as  though  you  had  slept  well,  and 
had  not  seen  any  ghosts,"  said  she,  at  break- 
fast, silently  admiring  his  deliciously  fresh 
skin. 


/A  CK  O'DOON.  I  I Q 

"I  never  slept  better  in  my  life,"  Algie  re- 
plied. 

"And  so  you  dreamed  no  dreams  for  my 
book  ?  "  inquired  Mercy. 

"Oh,  yes  I  I  dreamed  a  dream  like  a  fairy 
tale.     But  it  won't  bear  telling,"  said  he. 

Aunt  Polly  stared  at  him  through  her  glit- 
tering glasses,  and  Algie  became  so  non- 
plussed that  he  turned  as  red  as  red  could  be. 

"  But  you  promised,"  said  Mercy,  smiling 
with  a  tender  feeling  of  compassion  as  she 
watched  the  color  subside  from  his  face. 
There  is  no  doubt  that  men  who  color  easily 
have  great  compensation  for  their  embarrass- 
ment in  the  sympathy  of  most  women. 

"  I  ought  to  have  a  little  time  to  make  it  up 
with  effect  I  "  protested  Algie. 

"Oh,  no  I"  exclaimed  Mercy,  "because  it 
won't  come  true  unless  you  tell  it  at  break- 
fast !  " 

"All  right,"  said  he,  "  if  you  give  me  leave 
to  withhold  all  the  parts  I  don't  want  to  come 
true." 

"  No,  no  1  You're  much  too  mysterious 
already  !  " 

"  But  I  really  must  think  it  over,"  persisted 
Algie  seriously,  proceeding  to  butter  the  toast 
which  he  had  taken  from  the  rack,  and  con- 
tinuing to  talk  while  he  did  so.  "  You  know 
we  are  supposed  to  be  in  a  great  hurry  this 
morning  to  go  to  work  on  the  studio.  We 
need  a  cloth  hanging  for  the  background. 
Could   we    manage    to    get    a    piece    of   blue 


I20  JACK  O' BOON. 

denim  anywhere  near  ?  But  that  is  so  cold  ; 
say  dark-red  canton  flanneh" 

'•  We  might,  in  the  village  ;  there  are  shops 
there." 

"Could  we  get  it  ?  "  inquired  Algie,  imm_e- 
diately  grasping  at  a  possibility.  "Could  we 
find  the  way  ?  " 

"  How  do  you  mean  1  "  Mercy  asked.  "  It 
is  much  too  far  to  walk." 

"No  ;  I  mean,  could  we  go  in  the  gig,  you 
and  I  ?  "     Algie  blushed  at  his  own  temerity. 

"  I  never  should  have  thought  of  anything 
so  funny  !  You  and  I,  jogging  across  the 
sands  in  father's  old  gig  !  " 

"Suppose  it  is  funny;  does  that  make  it 
impracticable  ?  You  see  only  I  could  get  it,  be- 
cause no  one  else  would  understand  the  style 
of  thing,  and  I  shall  need  you  to  go  and  show 
me  the  way." 

"  Splugen  might  do  so,"  said  Aunt  Polly 
satirically. 

"  I'll  ask  father,"  said  Mercy,  smiling  at 
Algie's   evident  terror  of  Aunt  Polly. 

"  You  know  we  ought  to  be  very  industrious 
to-day,"  said  he,  as  she  was  leaving  the  room. 
In  a  few  moments  there  was  a  tumult  below. 

Nothing  gave  the  Captain  such  complete 
satisfaction  as  a  "jolly  good  row." 

Presently  Algie  heard  him  exclaim  :  "You 
know  I  ain't  got  no  'pinions  in  this  here  house  ! 
More  like  than  not  she'll  break  your  neck. 
But  jest  have  yer  own  way  ;  I  ain't  a-goin'  to 
cross  ye  !  " 


JACK  O' BOON.  121 

Some  protest  and  demur  follo\ved  from 
Mercy,  then  the  Captain's  loud  voice  was 
heard  shouting  from  the  stable  :  "  Confound 
that  gal  !  You  know  I  ain't  a-keerin'  fur  the 
horse,  or  the  vehicle,  but  I'm  more'n  certain 
ihe'll  break  yer  neck." 

"Why,  father,  you  know  old  Jim's  so  slow 
his  bones  creak  in  the  joints,"  was  Mercy's 
answer, 

"  At  last  I  "  cried  she,  rushing  into  the 
breakfast-room.,  brimful  of  smiles.  "Again 
I've  '  stooped  to  conquer.'  " 

After  much  more  terrific  ado,  Algie  and 
Mercy,  each  with  a  foot-stove,  a  great  bear- 
skin rug,  and  innumerable  precautions,  set  oft 
at  a  funereal  crawl  to  traverse  the  bleak  waste 
of  sand  which  lay  between  them  and  the 
village  on  the  railway,  where  a  stock  of  dry 
goods  was  boasted  rather  than  displayed. 

"  You  must  tell  me  your  dream  now,"  said 
Mercy,  after  they  had  jogged  along  some  time 
in  silence. 

"Do  you  really  hold  me  to  it,  and  promise 
not  to  be  angry  ?  "  said  he. 

"  Angry  about  a  dream  ?  "  said  Mercy. 
"What  a  goose  you  must  think  I  am  I  " 

"  Because  I  dreamed  about  you,"  said  Algie. 
Mercy  colored  and  looked  away.  "  I 
dreamed,"  said  he,  encouraged,  "  that  we — that 
is,  you  and  I — went  wandering  in  a  beautiful 
garden,  down  a  long  and  pleasant  path  to- 
gether ;  and  every  flower  of  the  spring  opened 
in  succession  as  we  passed  it,   until   we  came 


122  JACK  O' BOON. 

to  innumerable  roses,  sweet  and  delicious  like 
the  roses  at  Booja  ;  and  they  were  so  tempting 
that  I  gathered  them  for  you  until  they  spilled 
out  of  your  arms  upon  the  ground.  And  as 
we  continued  walking,  we  came  to  a  place 
where  the  way  divided  into  two  ways,  and  I 
wished  to  go  on  with  you  ;  but  a  power  beyond 
my  control  forced  me  to  take  the  other  road. 
I  was  very  reluctant,  but  I  left  you  with  the 
roses  in  your  arms.  As  we  parted,  you  gave 
me  one.  A  little  tear  fell  upon  it  as  you  gave 
it  me,  and  there  seemed  to  be  a  charm  in  the 
tear.  See  how  foolish  my  dream  was  ;  you 
would  not  shed  a  tear   for   me,  would  you  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  you  would  very  quickly  dash  it 
to  the  ground  if  I  did.  Men  don't  like  tears," 
replied  Mercy,  "  but  go  on  with  your  dream." 

"  Must  I  tell  you  the  rest  ?  "said  Algie  ;  "  do 
you  exact  it  }  " 

"  Of  course,"  said  Mercy. 

"  Well,  as  I  went  on  my  separate  way,  to 
my  surprise,  the  flower  did  not  wither  as  all 
other  flowers  do  in  my  hands  ;  for  the  little  tear- 
drop, which  still  lay  in  the  heart  of  it,  kept  it 
alive.  Time  and  again,  I  turned  to  look  at 
you  across  the  garden,  as  you  went  your  own 
straight  way  ;  until,  finally,  I  became  impressed 
that  I  was  going  a  long  and  lonely  distance  to 
no  purpose  ;  for  my  eyes  and  thoughts  were 
ever  turning  back  to  consider  you  ;  and  after 
a  while  I  saw  that  some  one  had  joined  you 
and  was  walking  in  my  place  by  your  side  ; 
and  then  I  turned,  and  tried  to  go  back  and 


JACK  O'DOON.  123 

overtake  you.  It  was  a  much  longer  way 
than  I  had  thought,  and  I  was  utterly  wretched. 
I  wanted  to  be  in  that  man's  place  ;  but  it  was 
too  late,  and  so,  all  out  of  heart,  I  sat  down 
beside  the  garden  path.  Night  was  coming 
on.  I  could  still  see  your  two  figures  outlined 
against  the  blood-red  evening  sky,  and  I 
sprang  up,  feeling  determined  that  I  would 
die  trying  to  reach  you." 

"  And  did  you  ?  "  said  Mercy,  eager  to  hear 
the  end  of  the  story,  and  forgetful  that  she  was 
the  heroine. 

•'  Do  you  wish  I  had  ?"  said  Algie,  smiling, 
and  suddenly  turning  to  look  at  her. 

Something  in  his  scrutiny  made  Mercy 
tremble  and  drop   her  eyes  without  replying. 

•'  No,"  said  Algie,  after  a  pause,  and  in  an 
altered  tone,  "  I  had  not  reached  you  when  I 
awoke,  but  I  had  gathered  again  many  of  the 
flowers  which  had  fallen  from  vour  arms  ;  and 
when  I  had  kissed  them  with  delight  at  touch- 
ing once  again  something  you  had  touched, 
they  came  to  life  in  my  hands,  and,  who 
knows,  if  the  sun  had  not  shone  in  my  eyes,  I 
micrht  have  toiled  on  over  the  hill,  and  have 
overtaken  you." 

Then  they  were  both  silent  for  a  long  time, 
until  Mercy  made  an  effort  and  said,  "  How 
absurd  dreams  are  !  " 

"  Shall  you  write  a  book  of  dreams,  and 
begin  with  mine  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Mercy  under  her  breath. 

•*  Why  not  ?  " 


i24  JACK  O'DOON. 

"  Because  I  could  not  bear  to  have  any  one 
know  you  had  dreamed  that  !  " 

"  Are  you  sorry /^«  know  it  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Mercy  shamefacedly,  but  trying 
very  hard  to  be  truthful. 

"  Good  heavens  !  "  thought  Algie,  with  a 
faint  sigh  of  contrition,  "  what  deep  water  I'm 
getting  into  !  But  then,"  he  told  himself,  "  it 
was  the  fault  of  that  stupid  old  horse;  he  was 
so  slow  one  had  to  talk  to  get  rid  of  time  !  " 

Algie  remained  silent,  reflecting  on  what  he 
had  done.  There  was  something  true  and 
loyal  in  him,  even  though  he  had  spent  his 
life  for  the  most  part  frivolously.  Hitherto 
he  had  known  that  he  was  trifling  with 
triflers,  and  he  was  too  generous,  realizing  as 
he  did  his  monetary  perplexities,  to  wish  to 
act,  even  upon  a  fickle  sincerity,  with  Mercy. 
He  was  suddenly  brought,  by  the  story  of  his 
dream,  to  look  upon  a  possible,  even  probable 
state  of  things,  which  might  await  them  in  the 
future  ;  and  he  experienced  a  noble  desire  to 
protect  her,  in  her  innocence,  from  any  pain, 
even  of  his  own  making.  Why  had  he  not 
invented  a  dream  ?  He  had  told  much  worse 
lies  before. 

But  as  a  policy,  in  the  long  run,  honesty  is 
much  the  best  ;  and  should  a  part  of  the 
dream  be  realized,  and  Algie  knew  very  well 
it  would  be,  perhaps  it  would  prove  a  super- 
stitious solace  to  believe  the  rest  might 
be  ;  and  as  he  took  that  comfort  to  his  soul, 
his  face  quickly  cleared. 


JACK  O'DOON.  125 


CHAPTER  X. 

S  soon  as  they  returned  they  set  to 
work  with  a  will,  stirring  up  such 
clouds  of  dust  that  Mercy  began  to 
sneeze  with  a  vigor  that  rivalled 
Aunt  Polly's. 

When  that  lady  put  her  head  in  at  the  door, 
the  Captain  informed  her  that  he  detested 
sneezing  women,  and  that  two  at  once  were 
more  than  he  could  stand. 

Bill  Junk's  curiosity  brought  him  up  from 
below  ;  Antonio,  with  his  child-like  Neapoli- 
tan smile,  also  came  to  proffer  his  services. 
Splugen  appeared  with  the  parrot,  which  was 
more  gossipy  and  abusive  than  ever  ;  and 
Sailor,  in  his  excitement,  invented  new  and 
intricate  ways  of  getting  under  people's  feet. 
But  everybody  was  in  a  good  humor  except 
Aunt  Polly. 

The  look  of  care  was  gone  from  Mercy's 
face,  and  she  was  brisk  and  full  of  life. 

Before  long  the  Captain  had  had  enough 
of  it,  and  retired  to  his  old  haunts. 

Finding  themselves  deserted,  Mercy  wished 
to  recall  Splugen,  but  Algie  had  a  mind  that 


126  JACK  O'DOON. 

two  was    company  and    three    a    crowd,  and 
preferred  the  company. 

"  No,"  cried  he  excitedly,  embracing  the 
step-ladder,  and  rushing  across  the  room  with 
it,  '•  let's  do  it  ourselves." 

So  Mercy  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  ladder, 
handing  up  tacks  to  him,  and  a  wonderful 
amount  of  waiting  on  he  required,  every  time 
just  managing  to  touch  the  tips  of  her  rosy 
fingers,  and  steal  a  glance  into  her  confiding 
eyes. 

When  it  was  time  for  lunch,  and  Antonio 
looked  in  to  inform  them  of  that  fact,  he  grinned 
in  astonishment  at  the  change. 

Mercy,  with  her  sleeves  rolled  up  to  the 
shoulders,  a  big  striped  apron  on,  and  her 
arms  akimbo,  was  a  pretty  enough  picture, 
and  Algie,  resting  upon  the  step-ladder  to 
survey  the  work,  looked  at  her  admiringly. 

They  ate  their  lunch  in  the  most  undignified 
haste,  scandalizing  Aunt  Polly,  and  returned 
eagerly  to  their  work.  It  was  good  so  far. 
They  had  put  wide  bands  of  indigo,  dark  red, 
old-gold,  and  green  around  the  room,  covering 
the  walls  down  to  the  oak  wainscoting,  which 
was  good  and  real,  with  its  solid  nail  heads, 
put  in  for  a  purpose,  showing  at  every  joint. 

•'  Now  you  help  me  to  drape  this  long  silk 
fishing-net  over  these  bands  of  color,"  said 
Algie,  climbing  up  the  ladder  with  one  end  of 
the  net  ;  "  and  hand  me  the  brass-headed 
nails,  one  at  a  time,  and  I  will  drive  them 
wherever  I  can  find  the  studding." 


JACK  O' DOOM.  127 

The  net  must  have  been  fifty  yards  long- 
and  ten  feet  wide,  with  outlandish  cork 
floats,  which  projected  at  intervals  from  the 
walls. 

"  This  net  carries  me  back  so,  to  one  night 
en  the  Bay  of  Naples,"  said  Algie.  "  We  were 
not  allowed  to  land  till  morning — I  was  only 
a  boy  then — and  I  became  so  excited,  running 
from  the  deck  to  the  bridge,  watching  the  fish- 
ing-boats come  out  with  flaming  fires  in  copper 
braziers,  and  the  boatmen  paying  out  the  net, 
and  these  great  things  bobbing  about  so  whim- 
sically in  the  moonlight !  A  white  stream  of 
light  from  the  moon  and  a  red  stream  from 
the  fire  made  it  a  scene  I  shall  never  forget. 
And  another  time,  driving  along  the  road 
from  Castellamare  to  Pompeii,  we  stopped 
and  I  got  out  of  the  carriage  to  feel  the  nets  ; 
I  could  scarcely  believe  they  were  silk.  They 
looked  like  brown  cobwebs  hanging  from  one 
fig-tree  to  another,  drying  in  the  sun.  How 
little  I  thought,  then,  that  the  next  time  I 
touched  one,  after  ten  years,  I  should  be  here 
with  you.  It  seems  strange  that  I  did  not 
know  you  were  in  the  world  then." 

"  And  ten  years  from  now,  I  wonder  where 
we'll  be,"  said  Mercy. 

"  Oh,  nothing  ahead  of  this  day  and  hour  !  " 
cried  Algie  impatiently,  as  if  he  hated  all 
beyond  the  present.  "  Now,  isn't  that  beau- 
tiful .''  "  said  he,  screwing  up  his  right  eye  very 
unbecomingly  and  cocking  his  head  on  one 
side  to  get  the  effect.     "  The  tone  of  that  net 


128  fACK  O'DOON. 

is  lovely  !  "  he  exclaimed,  after  an  ecstatic 
pause. 

"  And  here  is  another  net,  a  blue  one. 
What  can  we  do  with  that  ?  "  said  Mercy. 

"Oh,  stretch  it  like  a  cobweb  over  the 
ceiling."  Then  Algie  got  together  a  few 
boards  to  make  shelves,  and  banged,  and 
sawed,  and  hammered  until  he  made  such  a 
racket  that  the  whole  family  collected  again. 
Upon  the  shelves  they  arranged  hundreds  of 
shells,  rosy  and  shining,  black,  white,  and 
brown,  from  all  the  seas  and  oceans.  There 
were  Bahama  tortoise-shelis  polished  exqui- 
sitely, a  harvest  of  seaweed,  and  all  kinds  of 
dried  and  shrivelled  things,  which  it  made 
one  shudder  to  touch.  Then  they  sat  down 
to  rest. 

•'That  Chinese  idol  must  loaf  in  a  corner, 
he's  much  too  fat  and  lazy  for  a  god,  and  the 
junk  sail  shall  darken  the  cross  light ;  and 
we'll  hang  the  Egyptian  scarfs  upon  the 
mantelpiece." 

The  easel  which  Algie  had  brought  down 
from  town  was  set  in  place,  an  Alcaldi 
saddle-cloth  spread  under  it,  and  a  Mexican 
blanket  of  the  old  artistic  lozenge-pattern 
hung  over  it.  Mercy  observed  that  what 
were  generally  considered  the  off-hand  effects 
were  always  the  ones  which  cost  the  most 
pains.  And  then  they  congratulated  them- 
selves as  quite  successful,  and  sat  down  again 
before  the  fire,  in  the  gathering  gloom  of  the 
evening. 


JACK  O'DOON.  I2rt 

The  girl's  face  was  tenderly  lighted  by  the 
firelight  as  she  fell  into  one  of  her  long  medi- 
tations, and  Algie  watched  her  in  silence. 
She  was  so  quaint  and  original  that  he  was 
constantly  watching  her,  as  if  she  perplexed 
him.  What  were  the  maidenly  fancies  pre- 
occupying so  innocent  a  mind  ?  Thinking  ! 
Perpetually  thinking  !  He  felt  withal  a  kind 
of  conscious  wickedness  that  he  had  never 
felt  before  ;  he  dared  not  allow  himself  to  be 
so  happy  with  her.  How  could  he,  in  honor, 
when  he  had  never  known  a  New  Year  find 
him  rich  enough  to  make  ends  meet  ?  What 
right  had  he  to  take  the  risk  of  inflicting  the 
chances  of  his  harum-scarum  life  upon  her  ? 
He  had  been  well  taught  the  old  maxim, 
"  When  Poverty  comes  in  at  the  door,  Love 
flies  out  at  the  window."  Yet  he  sat  silently 
picturing  to  himself,  in  his  eager  susceptible 
way,  how  happy  he  could  be  with  her,  for  he 
felt  such  satisfaction  after  this,  their  first  day's 
work  together,  that  he  thought  he  should  be 
as  happy  as  that  every  day. 

But  Mercy,  he  saw  plainly  enough,  did  not 
know  what  it  meant  to  struggle  to  make  ends 
meet.  She  had  always  had  her  father's  for- 
tune at  her  command,  free  to  give  to  all  ac- 
cording to  the  dictates  of  her  generous  heart. 
Never  having  been  tempted  by  a  thousand 
idle  w^ays  of  wasting  money,  she  would  not 
understand  his  difficulties  if  he  told  them.  At 
the  same  time,  she  was  the  sort  of  woman  to 
tempt  a  man's  confidence. 
9 


l^Q  JACK  O'DOON. 

He  begfan  to  wish  he  had  never  come  to 
Cassandra  Bay  ;  never  wandered  on  the  beach 
that  day  ;  never  seen  Mercy  !  It  seemed  ages 
and  ages  ago  to  him.  In  reality,  that  was 
Saturday  night,  and  he  had  been  there  since 
Wednesday.  In  his  headlong  haste  he  had 
lived  a  whole  lifetime  in  those  four  days. 

The  Captain  put  a  stop  to  their  reflections 
by  thrusting  his  head  in  at  the  door,  telling 
them  dinner  was  coming  on  to  the  table  ;  and 
they  hurried  to  their  rooms  to  dress. 

But  Algie,  notwithstanding  the  abstinence 
of  his  resolves,  could  not  resist  touching 
Mercy's  hand,  either  by  contrivance  or  acci- 
dent, as,  in  the  dusk  of  the  room,  he  moved 
past  her  to  open  the  door. 

Then  his  conscience  smote  him  as  he  walked 
up  the  stairs,  and  told  him  to  go  home.  It 
was  a  conscience  which  talked  a  great  deal 
and  acted  very  little  ;  and  was  most  vehement 
when  out  of  temptation.  But  he  was  only 
twenty-six — the  prime  age  when  the  heart  is 
most  full  and  eager  to  be  happy.  Moreover, 
seeing  that  Mercy  was  so  anxious  about  the 
ship,  he  did  not  apprehend  any  unhappiness 
to  others,  and  redoubled  his  efforts  to  please 
the  family  ;  his  conscience  to  the  contrary 
notwithstanding.  Even  Aunt  Polly  yielded, 
and  admired  him. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday,  and  a  heavy 
gale  was  blowing.  Mercy  appeared  with  her 
jacket  buttoned  up  to  the  chin. 

"  Where  can  you  be  oft  to  ?  "  said  Algie, 


JACK  O'DOON.  j^j 

looking  up.     "  You   had   much   better   get   a 
book  and  keep  me  company." 

"  And  leave  the  little  boys  and  girls  to 
grief  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  Where  are  you 
really  going  ?  " 

"  About  half  a  mile  across  the  sands,  to 
where  a  half-dozen  huts  shelter  several  dozen 
children  whom  I  regale  on  Sundays  with 
stories  of  a  religious  nature." 

"  Am  I  too  grown-up  to  go  ?  I  adore 
stories." 

"  I'm  afraid  you  are,"  said  Mercy,  abashed. 
"  I  could  not  possibly  interest  you." 

"  You  can  only  prove  that  by  turning  my 
mind  inside  out.     Won't  you  let  me  go  ?  " 

She  could  scarcely  have  declined  if  she  had 
wished,  so  when  he  had  donned  a  pilot  jacket 
and  a  shaggy  "  Tam  O'Shanter,"  he  took  the 
little  basket  which  she  had  been  holding  in 
her  hand,  and  they  started  across  the  salt 
marsh  by  a  path  which  led  over  the  crest  of 
a  sand  cliff,  and  descended  abruptly  to  the 
beach. 

A  clamor  of  voices  arose  at  sight  of  them, 
and  a  few  half-savage  children  gathered  about 
the  cabin  toward  which  Mercy  conducted  Al- 
gie.  An  old  man,  crouching  beside  the  door, 
removed  a  pipe  from  his  lips  to  greet  them. 
Inside,  a  woman  having  a  baby  at  her  breast 
dusted  a  chair  with  her  apron,  and  invited 
Algie  to  take  a  seat,  indicating  another  for 
Mercy. 


1^2  JACK  O' BOON. 

"  The  wind  were  a-blowin'  that  bad  I 
'lowed  like  as  not  ye  wouldn't  be  a-comin'. 
I  heard  you'uns  had  company  folks  a-stayin' 
with  ye,"  said  she,  dragging  up  a  chest  to 
the  corner  of  the  fire  to  sit  upon.  "  I  ain't  a 
feelin'  so  mighty  well  myself.  The  baby,  he's 
been  that  bad  the  whole  night  I  like  to  not 
got  no  sleep  ;  but  'pears  like  he's  a  little  grain 
easier  now." 

As  she  spoke,  she  laid  the  child  across  her 
knees,  so  that  the  head,  suspended  by  a  limp 
little  neck  to  a  meagre  body,  hung  over  her 
leg  like  a  bag  of  beans. 

Mercy  leaned  forward  in  painful  concern 
for  the  child.  "  Oh  !  do  let  me  hold  him," 
she  said.  "  I  know  you  must  be  worn  out. 
Poor  little  thing  !  "  she  added,  sliding  her 
hand  gently  under  it,  and  pillowing  its  head 
in  the  hollow  of  her  arm.  It  was  not  the 
freshest  baby  in  the  world,  and  Algie  was 
rather  disgusted  that  Mercy  should  put  her 
hands  on  it. 

The  child  whimpered,  but  the  woman, 
straightening  herself  with  a  sigh  of  relief, 
poured  out  a  panful  of  boiling  water,  and 
proceeded  to  wash  the  litter  of  cups  and 
saucers  which  covered  the  table. 

"  You  must  be  so  uncomfortable  here," 
whispered  Mercy  to  Algie.  "  Don't  feel 
obliged  to  wait  for  me.  You  know  I'm  quite 
used  to  it." 

He  shook  his  head  negatively. 

Meantime,  the  children  began  squabbling 


JACK  O'DOON.  J, 2 

and  shoving  each  other  against  the  door, 
which  finally  burst  open  ;  and  about  twenty 
of  them,  in  all  stages  of  dishevelment, 
crowded  in,  and  huddled  together  upon  the 
floor  behind  Mercy's  chair,  fixing  their  eyes 
upon  Algie  with  a  uniform  and  unbroken 
stare. 

"  I  wonder  if  you'll  ever  understand  the 
verse  I  teach  you  so  often,"  said  Mercy,  with 
a  sigh  of  despair.  "  He  that  hath  clean 
hands  and  a  pure  hearth  Continuing  to 
sway  the  baby  upon  her  knees,  she  took 
from  her  basket  a  copy  of  "  The  Pilgrim's 
Progress,"  and  resumed  the  reading  of  the 
story  where  she  had  left  off  the  last  time  ; 
occasionally  pausing  to  inquire  if  they  under- 
stood her. 

Presently  the  baby  set  up  a  piping  wail, 
and  Mercy,  fearing  they  might  disturb  the 
little  creature,  bade  them  follow  her  to  a 
sheltered  nook  outside,  where  they  found 
seats  upon  a  wreck.  All  repeated  the  creed 
and  Ten  Commandments  with  her,  and  after- 
wards they  said  the  Lord's  Prayer  together, 
kneeling  upon  the  sand. 

The  children  spoke  as  if  they  really  be- 
lieved that  they  had  a  God  and  a  Father,  who 
would  grant  them  their  daily  bread  if  they 
asked  for  it.  The  faith  which  Mercy  had 
taught  them  went  home  to  Algie. 

"  Who  works  for  others,  works  for  him- 
self," he  said  sceptically,  but  his  conscience 
told  him  that  Mercy  really  enjoyed  the   act  of 


1^4  JACK  O'DOON. 

doing  good  for  those  who  could  never  do  any- 
thing for  her  in  return. 

When  she  had  finished  with  the  children 
Algie  left  the  wreck  and  walked  about  the 
beach,  watching  her  go  from  door  to  door. 
By  the  time  her  basket  was  empty  the  gale 
had  subsided,  and  the  blue  sky  was  out  in 
patches. 

The  water  was  gone  from  the  pier,  and 
fishing-smacks  lay  tilted  on  the  sand,  their 
gaffs  dropped  low,  and  fish-nets  hung  from 
mast  to  mast. 

Algie  and  Mercy  walked  along  the  beach, 
facing  Mother  Margery's  cabin,  and  were 
close  upon  the  spot  where  they  had  first  met. 

She  so  thoroughly  satisfied  his  peculiar  re- 
quirements that  it  seemed  impossible  to  him 
that  he  could  have  known  her  for  so  short  a 
time,  but  he  felt  as  if  in  his  innermost  con- 
sciousness he  had  held  her  always. 

The  scene  had  changed  much  since  that 
day.  Then,  the  tide  was  in,  and  the  sea  tu- 
multuous after  the  night's  storm  ;  now,  for  a 
long  way  out,  the  beach  was  dry,  and  two 
cliffs  held  the  harbor  bar,  like  a  rusty  chain, 
over  which  the  tide  was  lapping. 

"  I  shall  never  forget  this  spot,"  said  Algie. 
"  Some  day,  when  you  are  not  expecting  me, 
or  have  forgotten  me,  you  may  meet  me  here. 
Do  you  ever  feel  a  queer  desire  to  repeat 
yourself,  to  do  again,  perhaps  with  the  hope 
of  doing  better,  something  which  you  have 
done  before  ?  " 


JACK  O'DOON.  j^r- 

"  No,  never,"  said  Mercy,  "  the  days  are 
too  full,  I  have  no  time  !  But,"  she  added 
laughing,  "  my  days  are  all  repetitions  one  of 
another.  I  sometimes  wonder  if  I  could  en- 
dure life  away  from  here  ;  I  don't  think  I 
could  for  long  !  " 

"  Wouldn't  you  gradually  forget  ?  " 

"  No,  no,"  said  Mercy,  "when  I  go  away, 
I  am  hopelessly  homesick  until  I  get  back. 
Even  when  father  goes  with  me,  I  miss  Jack 
so.     I  am  so  fond  of  him." 

"You  were  so  fond  of  him,"  said  Algie. 
He  repented  his  cruelty  in  a  moment ;  but  it 
made  him  so  frantically  jealous,  wandering  in 
these  haunts,  to  be  forever  reminded  that  Jack 
had  such  advantage  of  him. 

"  Jack  will  never  be  past  and  gone  to  me," 
said  Mercy,  w^ith  a  quaver  in  her  voice  which 
cut  Algie  to  the  quick. 

"  You  will  forget  your  grief  in  time  ;  every 
one  forgets,"  said  Algie,  with  the  assurance 
of  a  man  of  the  world. 

"  Forget  1  "  cried  Mercy.  "Can  my  own 
life  ever  cease  to  be  real  to  me  ?  Could  I  for- 
get you,  or  this  moment  ?  " 

Algie  winced.  He  could  not  decide 
whether  her  words  were  satirical  ;  but  Mercy 
was  thinking  of  abstract  conditions.  "  The 
past  is  just  as  necessary  as  the  present,"  said 
she.  "  If  we  had  no  past,  how  could  we  exist 
morally  or  physically  ?  If  Jack's  influence  had 
not  made  in  me  some  of  those  qualities  which 
are  integral  parts  of  me,  how  could  I  be  what 


1^6  JACK  O'DOON. 

I  am  ;  and,  being  what  I  am,  how  could  I  for- 
get Jack  ?     So,  also,  I  know  I  help  Jack." 

"  Do  you  think  you  have  no  power  to  help 
any  save  Jack  ?  Can't  you  conceive  that  your 
faith  in  Jack  is  helping  to  make  my  faith  in 
you,  and,  through  you,  in  human  nature  at 
large  ?  Or  do  you  care  nothing  about  it  ? 
Perhaps  you  love  Jack  because  you  can  patro- 
nize him  ! " 

His  tone  was  so  sarcastic  that  Mercy  looked 
at  him  in  wonder. 

"  How  could  I  presume  to  patronize  Jack, 
who  is  so  much  nobler  and  more  generous 
than  I  am  !  "  she  exclaimed. 

Moved  by  an  impulse  he  scarcely  under- 
stood, Algie  replied. 

"  Is  he  refined  and  cultivated  ?  Is  a 
woman  capable  of  fully  loving,  or  admiring 
with  endurance,  a  person  who  commands  her 
moral  esteem  only,  and  for  whom,  in  all  other 
respects,  she  must  make  apology?  I  think 
you  are  in  grave  error.  Men  who  are  only 
morally  superlative  end  by  being  insufferable 
bigots,  and,  in  the  long  run,  are  detestable  !  " 

"  What  if  I  thought  that  a  man,  so  mis- 
judging another  who  was  absent,  might  be 
more  detestable  I  "  exclaimed  Tvlercy,  with  her 
father's  hot  temper  flashing  in  her  eyes. 

"  Oh,  forgive  me,"  cried  Algie,  instantly  re- 
called to  himself,  "  I  don't  know  why  I  said  it  ! 
You  will  forgive  me,  won't  you  ?  "  With 
heedless  impetuosity  he  seized  her  hand  and 
held  it  until  their  eyes  met. 


JACK  O'DOON.  I^y 

She  did  not  know  what  to  think  of  him,  nor 
did  he  of  himself. 

"  Jack  will  always  be  Jack  to  me,"  she 
finally  said,  "  nor  will  any  one  ever  take  his 
dear  place." 

Through  Algie's  mind  flashed  a  hope  that 
Jack  was  done  with  ;  but  he  was  neither  brutal 
nor  base,  and  a  moment  later  he  felt  that  he 
deserved  to  be  kicked,  and  said  very  earnestly, 
"Would  you  mind  telling  me  what  place  he 
holds  ?  " 

Mercy  hesitated,  but  the  moral  compulsion 
of  Algie's  scrutiny  compelled  her  to  speak. 
"  I  hardly  know,"  said  she,  at  length,  "but 
when  I  read  the  story  of  a  hero  of  old,  I  can 
always  put  Jack  in  his  place.  There  is  no 
act  of  self-abnegation,  self-immolation,  even, 
which  Jack  could  not  achieve,  if  he  felt  that 
it  was  necessary  and  right.  Nothing  he 
would  shrink  from,  even  to  the  helping  of  the 
last  old  sailor  to  the  last  seat  in  the  lifeboat 
and  going  down  alone  on  a  swamping  deck. 
Could  you,  who  perhaps  are  no  such  '  bigot,' 
do  that  ?  " 

"  No,  I  certainly  could  not,  and  I  doubt 
if  the  unidealized  Jack  of  flesh  and  blood 
could,  either,  although  your  fisher-folk  are 
bred  to  courage  as   a  Jersey  cow  is  bred  to 


cream." 


Mercy  looked  at  him  in  contempt  ;  but  he 
continued,  although  heturned  very  red,  "  Such 
courage  can  only  be  due  to  a  lack  of  appreci- 
ation  of  the   value    of  life,    and  to   the  ab- 


138  JACK  O' DOOM. 

sence  of  such  acquirements  as  make  a  man's 
life  essential  to  his  fellow-beings.  For  ex- 
ample, a  great  singer,  or  sculptor,  or  genius 
of  any  sort,  whose  whole  youth  must  be  spent 
in  acquiring  an  art,  can't  afford  to  die  ;  he 
owes  it  to  that  art  to  live.  He  is  just  as 
heroic  when  he  is  starving  in  a  garret,  toiling 
to  make  himself  perfect,  as  another  who  only 
suffers  once  and  finishes  the  struggle.  The 
two  ideals  are  different." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mercy,  '*  but  your  ideal  sacri- 
fices himself  to  an  art  which  repays  him  in 
this  world.  He  lives  to  feel  the  laurels  on 
his  brow  ;  but  my  ideal  sacrifices  himself  for 
his  fellow-men,  and  can  have  no  possible 
reward  except  in  immortality.  He  must 
display  the  sublimest  courage  as  well  as 
the  sublimest  faith.  It  is  his  soul  which  acts 
in  him,  believing  in  its  own  immortality. 
Jack's  heroism  could  only  be  made  perfect 
in  death,  and  receive  its  reward  in  a  future 
state,  while  your  hero's  is  only  a  sordid  en- 
durance receiving  its  recompense  in  clapping 
of  hands  and  stamping  of  feet.  The  only  re- 
ward worthy  of  the  hero  whom  I  admire  is 
the  smile  of  the  eternal  God." 

"  That  is  just  the  opposite  to  what  I  think," 
asserted  Abercrombie.  "There  can  be  no 
danger  nor  death  in  an  immortal  state,  there- 
fore Jack's  courage  perishes  with  him.  Per- 
haps you  may  call  my  hero  a  fanatic.  Which 
would  you  think  the  more  practical — yours 
or  mine  ?  " 


JACK  O'DOON.  129 

"I  think,"  replied  Mercy,  "that  for  the  re- 
pose of  every-day  life,  neither  would  be  neces- 
sarily agreeable." 

"  You  will  admit,  then,"  said  Algie,  "  that 
the  material  for  every-day  life  is  best  when 
net  made  up  of  apotheosized  Greek  heroes, 
nor  fanatical  geniuses,  but  of  the  lukewarm 
mixture  which  the  civilization  of  to-day  dubs 
'  a  gentleman,'  or  that  adaptation  of  incon- 
spicuous qualities  which  in  the  sum  of  our 
philosophy  is  called  the  commonplace  man, — 
a  creature  redounding  with  common  sense  !  " 

"  It  strikes  me  there  is  not  much  common 
sense  in  this  conversation  of  ours,  for  I  have 
begun  to  think  you  have  been  trying  to  con- 
vince me  that  a  gentleman  cannot  be  a  hero," 
said  Mercy. 

"  Not  by  any  means.  Occasionally  they 
happen  to  be  ;  but,  rather,  that  heroes  are 
not  commonly  gentlemen.  Achilles  was  a 
hero,  but,  measured  by  the  standard  of  to-day, 
he  was  no  gentleman  to  drag  old  Hector  in 
the  dust  ;  on  the  contrary,  I  think  he  was  an 
abnormal  beast,  and  deserved  to  be  pounded 
with  the  butt-end  of  a  thunderbolt." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Abercrombie,  how  can  you  be  so 
irreverent  !  "  cried  Mercy  in  dismay. 

"  I'm  not  irreverent,"  protested  Algie;  "  they 
were  savages,  and  I  pretend  to  be  a  gentle- 
man." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  imply  that  all  heroes  are 
savages  ?  "  demanded  Mercy  indignantly. 

"  Well,  yes,    if  you  will    have    it.     It's  the 


I40  JACK  C BOON. 

triumph  of  savage  nerve,  which  has  not  been 
weakened  by  sentiment,  over  intellectual 
economy.  In  early  days  men,  for  lack  of  rev- 
elation, adored  beasts,  and  the  more  brutal 
a  man  was,  the  more  blood  he  could  wade 
through,  the  more  god  they  thought  him.  In 
the  middle  ages  men  adored  mystical  reve- 
lation, in  these  days  they  adore  brains  !  " 

Mercy  shook  her  head  doubtfully,  and 
Algie  resumed  : 

"  Else  why  do  you  study  so  hard  when 
you  are  alone  ?  It  is  the  inherent  desire  of 
your  nature  to  approach  the  ideal  which  it 
adores.  Show  me  a  man's  god,  and  I  will 
show  you  the  man,  because  he  will  inevitably 
try  to  make  himself  like  his  deity,  or  his 
deity  like  himself.  You  will  outlive  the  heroic 
ideal,  as  your  intellectual  desires  become 
stronger.  You  will  outgrow  Jack,  just  as  Jack 
will  outgrow  himself — for  old  men  are  seldom 
heroes.  Their  courage  chang-es  into  magnan- 
imity." 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  Mercy,  looking  at 
him  inquiringly,  "  I  feel  as  if  you  had  led  me 
into  a  comparison  between  Jack  and  yourself. 
I  don't  agree  with  you.  If  old  men  are  seldom 
heroes,  it  is  because  they  have  become 
cowards  through  experience,  and  trust  their 
judgment  to  arbitrate  where  they  know  they 
would  be  beaten.  It  only  proves  to  me  that 
old  age  is  less  noble  than  youth." 

Abercrombie,  startled  by  her  remark,  had 
turned  crimson,  convinced  of  its  truth,  whilst 


JACK  O'DOON.  141 

she,  feeling  that  she  had  been  too  pointed, 
blushed  for  herself. 

Blushing  and  confused,  they  looked  at  each 
other,  until  Mercy,  recovering  herself,  said 
abruptly, — 

"  I  won't  grant  any  of  your  arguments,  ex- 
cept upon  circumstantial  evidence," 

"  All  right  I  "  said  Algie,  offering  his  hand  ; 
"  but  will  you  promise,  fair  and  true,  that  it 
I  ever  should  ask  you  for  your  conclusions, 
based  upon  such  evidence,  you  will  give  them 
to  me  without  evasion  ?  " 

"Upon  condition,"  replied  Mercy,  "that 
you  also  promise  me  that  when  it  is  proven  to 
you  that  you  are  wrong,  as  it  surely  will  be, 
you  will  own  up.  My  premises  are,  that  in- 
trepidity is  consistent  with  gentleness,  and 
that  the  power  to  lay  down  one's  life  and  die 
for  a  simple  human  end  may  coexist  with 
mental  ambition  as  well  as  common  sense." 

"  Yes,"  responded  he,  "  but  always  assum- 
ing that  it  be  done  in  the  necessary  carrying 
out  of  the  demands  of  every-day  life,  and  upon 
no  romantic,  uncalled-for,  or  eccentric  ad- 
venture." 

"  Very  well,  I'll  shake  hands  upon  it.  It's 
a  bargain,  and  we'll  find  our  proofs,"  said 
Mercy,  accepting  Abercrombie's  hand,  and 
little  dreaming  of  how  it  should  be  proven. 


142 


J  A  CK  O'DOON, 


CHAPTER  XI. 


ERCY  was  a  shrewd  observer,  and 
WSyR  M  ^^'Oi'^dered  if  Algie  really  thought  all 
rJEjW^B  he  had  said.  He  colored  under  her 
scrutiny  and  beat  the  fluted  sands 
with  his  stick,  feeling  that  he  had  been  guilty 
of  a  mean  act  in  endeavoring  to  undervalue 
Jack's  courage.  He  knew  very  well  that  if 
the  hero  had  been  any  other  than  Jack,  he 
would  have  been  much  less  deprecatory,  for, 
in  his  secret  heart,  he  fostered  a  good  deal  of 
hero-worship. 

He  began  to  fear  that  Mercy  might  think 
less  of  him  because  of  it.  How  could  she 
make  allowance  for  this  aversion  to  an 
unknown  man  which  had  arisen  in  his 
breast  ? 

He  felt  detestable,  knowing  that  he  had 
been  decrying  the  very  element  of  dauntless 
courage  which  was  the  backbone  of  Mercy's 
own  character,  and  which,  combined  with 
her  intelligence  and  originality,  made  her  so 
fascinating  to  himself  ;  and,  glancing  askance 
at  the  gentle  face,  he  admitted  that  she  com- 
bined many  of  the  attributes  of  Minerva  with 
the  most  feminine  tenderness. 


J  A  CK  O'DOON.  J  4, 

"I  believe  you  doubt  me  after  all,"  said 
he. 

"  I  do.  Perhaps  you  are  braver  than  you 
think,"  she  answered. 

"  Do  not  make  any  such  false  estimate  of 
me,"  he  replied  earnestly.  "  I  would  rather 
you  thought  less  of  me  than  I  deserved,  than 
more.  I  could  not  bear  to  be  spurious  to 
you,  of  all  people  in  the  world." 

Algie  thought  he  was  speaking  truth,  for 
he  felt  morally  certain  that  if  he  had  one 
spark  of  heroism,  he  would  fly  Cassandra 
and  this  delicious  dallying.  He  asked  him- 
self what  was  to  be  the  end  of  it. 

How  could  he  tie  his  arrogant  family,  fas- 
tidious even  among  cultivated  people,  to  this 
clan  of  rough  fisher-folk,  which  reminded 
him  of  a  great  oyster  bed — ugly,  wholesome, 
and  nutritious,  producing  this  one  pearl  .?  It 
seemed  madness  altogether,  for  he  knew  that 
the  pearl  could  only  be  removed  with  the 
death  of  the  oyster. 

Abercrombie  was  ignorant  that  the  Cap- 
tain's dominant  ambition  was  that  Mercy 
should  be  a  lady.  Dearly  as  he  loved  her,  he 
would  have  been  satisfied  to  yield  her  up  and 
watch  her  from  afar,  believing  that  the  igno- 
ble bivalve  was  not  worthy  to  keep  the  pre- 
cious thing  it  had  begotten.  The  pride  of  his 
whole  being  reached  its  climax  in  Mercy. 
Nothing  was  good  enough  for  her.  Golden 
hairpins  and  ruby  rings  were  less  than  fit. 
It  was  marvellous  that  the  girl  was  not  cor- 


144  JACK  O'DOON. 

riipted  by  such  indulgence.  The  secret  lay 
in  the  fact  that  her  ideal,  mingling,  as  it  did, 
the  transcendental  with  the  transitory,  was 
far  above  and  beyond  anything  which  the 
Captain  could  devise  for  her.  She  believed 
in  the  moral  exaltation  which  would  result  to 
her  from  the  endeavor  to  adapt  herself  to  her 
harsh  surroundings,  and  it  was  that  daily 
self-abnegation  which  gave  to  her  counte- 
nance the  light  of  saintliness  that  Algie  so 
admired. 

But  the  most  spiritual  of  women  could  have 
had  no  perfect  power  to  withstand  the  flat- 
tery of  a  man  whose  plausible  devotion  had 
the  polish  resulting  from  constant  practice, 
and  whose  warmth,  if  short-lived,  was  mag- 
netic. 

As  they  continued  their  walk,  these  quali- 
ties made  Jack's  rough  and  sturdy  nature 
seem  coarse  by  contrast,  and,  upon  approach- 
ing the  O'Doons'  cabin,  she  shrank  within 
herself  in  a  new  and  strange  way. 

But  she  remembered  that  in  darkness 
and  danger  he  had  proven  himself  to  be 
trusted,  as  his  father  and  brothers  had  before 
him. 

Had  not  her  own  father  been  humbly 
enouph  born  ?  How  was  she  better  than 
Jack,  save  for  what  money  brought  ?  She 
reproached  herself  bitterly.  Since  they  had 
been  little  boy  and  girl  together,  reading 
fairy  tales  or  playing  in  the  sand,  there  had 
been  an  undefined  feeling  of  loyalty  to  Jack's 


JACK  O'DOON.  14^ 

rights,  whatever  they  were,  and  she  now 
demanded  of  herself  that  he  should  be  treated 
with  reverence  worthy  the  hero  she  believed 
him.  Mother  Margery  also  had  always  been 
heroic  to  her,  and  there  was  a  momentary 
reeling  of  passionate  resentment  toward  Algie 
as  an  intruder  who  had  come  between  herself 
and  them. 

When  she  and  he  reached  the  cabin,  they 
found  the  door  open  to  admit  the  sunshine. 
At  first  no  one  was  visible,  but  on  looking 
more  carefully,  they  found  the  old  man  lying- 
asleep  upon  the  bed.     He    breathed    huskily. 

Mercy  went  and  laid  her  hand  gently  upon 
his  head.  A  painful  apprehension  came  upon 
her.  His  flesh  was  clammy  to  the  touch. 
She  looked  anxiously  at  Algie,  but,  being 
ignorant  of  illness,  he  could  not  interpret  her 
expression. 

"  He  must  be  very  ill  indeed,"  said  she, 
going  to  the  door  to  look  out ;  "  I  am  sure 
Mother  Margery  has  gone  for  help."  Then 
she  went  to  the  hearth,  raked  the  coals 
together  with  the  stump  of  a  firebrand,  and 
filled  the  kettle  with  water. 

"  Suppose  he  were  to  die  before  Jack  gets 
back,"  said  the  girl;  "his  heart  is  almost 
broken." 

Abercrombie  was  no  longer  capable  of  sur- 
prise at  anything  which  Mercy  might  do  or 
say  concerning  the  living  or  the  dead,  and 
sat  watching  her  mutely,  his  eyes  wandering 
with  keen  artistic  appreciation  over  the  quaint 
10 


1 46  J  A  CK  O'DOON. 

walls.  The  mind  which  had  conceived  the 
curious  combination  was  closely  in  accord 
with  his  own. 

There  was  such  unutterable  pathos  in  the 
suggestion  of  each  shred.  Even  the  gorgeous 
figure-head  apologized  for  its  degradation  ! 
Something  in  the  mildewed  sails,  in  the  frip- 
pery of  the  gilded  door,  in  the  silence  of  the 
little  tremulous  crabs  wriggling  in  the  breeze, 
smote  him  with  a  pang  of  pity  for  the  un- 
known, unguessable  things  of  which  each 
fragment  had  been  a  part. 

Turning  suddenly  to  Mercy,  he  asked  her 
who  had  arranged  them. 

"Jack,"  she  replied,  and  added,  quoting  his 
own  speech  of  an  hour  before  :  "  Show  me  a 
man's  god,  and  I  will  show  you  the  man." 
Then  she  went  on  :  "  Here,  too,  I  have  spent 
much  of  my  life." 

Just  at  that  moment  the  old  man  upon  the 
bed  seemed  to  be  strangling.  He  did  not 
recognize  Mercy  ;  not  even  when  she  lifted 
his  head  upon  her  shoulder. 

"  Pour  a  little  coftee  in  the  cup  and  bring  it 
to  me,"  said  the  girl  to  Abercrombie,  who  did 
so  with  great  agitation.  "Try  and  compose 
yourself,"  she  added,  seeing  that  his  hand 
trembled  violently.  He  looked  at  her  in  as- 
tonishment. 

Just  then  a  shadow  fell  upon  them,  and 
Mother  Margery  entered  with  the  Captain. 

"  Take  him,  Mother  Margery,  he  does  not 
know  me,"  said  Mercy,  making  room  for  her 


J  A  CK  O'DOON.  14^ 

beside  the  bed.  The  old  woman  lifted  her 
husband  in  her  arms. 

"Yes,"  said  the  old  man,  endeavoring  to 
follow  with  his  eyes  an  imaginary  object 
across  the  room,  "  I  know'd  he  were  a- 
comin'.  He  do  look  well.  Extraordinary 
well.  There  ain't  nar'a  sich  another  fine  boy 
at  the  fishin'."  He  stopped  bewildered,  and 
then  put  out  his  hand,  his  face  alight  with  an 
ineffable  smile.  "  He's  a-comin',  I  know'd  he 
war  a-comin'. 

His  hand  suddenly  dropped  heavily,  his 
eyes  lost  their  light  and  stared  blindly  before 
him,  and  his  head  gradually  sank  backwards. 
Those  looking  on  expected  to  hear  a  word,  a 
sigh,  a  single  shuddering  breath  ;  but  there 
was  nothing.     He  was  dead. 

Mother  Margery  looked  on  as  if  it  were 
beyond  belief,  and  then  with  a  dreadful  cry 
she  flung  herself  across  the  body. 

The  Captain  blew  his  nose  and  walked  out, 
with  that  sudden  cold  in  the  head  which  he 
always  assumed  when  his  neighbors  fell  into 
trouble. 

It  seemed  to  Abercrombie  that  Mercy  was 
made  of  humanized  iron.  She  was  standing 
beside  her  foster-mother,  looking  pityingly  at 
her  and  trying  to  draw  her  away  by  the  hand. 

He  had  never  see  a  man  die  before,  and 
was  surprised  that  it  was  not  horrible.  Per- 
haps the  first  thought  that  comes  to  one,  on 
seeing  a  stranger  die,  is  the  wish  to  be  in  his 
place,  that  it  might  all  be  over  with,  since, 


1 48  J  A  CK  O'DOON. 

some  day  Death  must  come  to  us  as  well. 
He  wondered  to  see  Mercy  treat  death  so 
familiarly,  for  after  a  moment  the  girl,  with 
great  effort,  but  with  method  and  tirmness, 
straightened  the  old  man's  back,  laid  his 
arms  down  by  his  side,  closed  his  eyes,  and 
then,  turning  to  Abercrombie,  touched  his 
sleeve  and  motioned  him  to  follow  her  out 
of  the  cabin.  Involuntarily  he  felt  his  flesh 
creep  when  she  touched  him.  Her  will  was 
so  strong,  and  her  self-command  so  resolute, 
that  he  was  afraid  of  her. 

"  Shall  we  leave  your  foster-mother  alone  .''  " 
he  asked,  moving  reluctantly  from  the  door, 
which  he  was  surprised  to  see  Mercy  close 
after  them. 

"  I'm  doing  as  I  would  be  done  by,"  she 
answered. 

Walking  away  toward  the  little  hamlet  they 
had  left  but  an  hour  before,  they  descried 
fishermen  hastening  toward  them.  "  I'm  so 
glad  father  found  you,  O'Reill,"  said  Mercy; 
"  if  you  will  wait  outside  the  cabin  a  while, 
it  will  be  good  of  you.  You  know  of  old  that 
Mother  Margery  fights  her  battles  best  alone. 
I'll  come  back  after  a  while  and  take  her 
away." 

So  the  fisherman  went  and  sat  down  beside 
the  door  of  the  cabin  in  the  sun,  and  soon 
others  came  and  sat  beside  him,  waiting,  in  a 
kind  of  awe-stricken  silence, until  Mercy  should 
come  back. 

Meantime,  she  and  Algie  climbed  the  cliff 


J  A  CK  O'DOON.  1 4g 

where  it  was  shelving,  and  followed  the  path 
through  the  salt  marsh.  At  length  Mercy, 
observing  that  her  companion  was  silent, 
looked  at  him  inquiringly. 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  you,"  said 

Algie  abruptly. 

It    was    wonderful    what    startling    truths 
Mercy's  eyes  probed  out  of  people. 

"  You  think,  perhaps,  that  I  have  no  human 
feeling,"  said  she  in  reply,  as  if  she  had  rea(!J 
his  thoughts  ;  "  but,"  she  added  after  a  pause, 
"  do  you  really  believe,  that  if  I  had  no  feeling, 
I,  young  as  I  am,  could  have  forced  myself  to 
look  at  death  so  often  and  in  so  many  dread- 
ful shapes,  as  to  appear  to  look  upon  it  now 
with  indifference  ?  I  have  learned  the  neces- 
sity for  absolute  self-control,  and  that,  by 
means  of  it,  I  can  often  do  for  others  what 
they  are  too  excited  to  do  for  themselves.  I 
can't  remember  the  day  when  the  first  dying 
hand  was  clasped  in  mine  !  They  are  rougli 
people,  you  think,"  she  added,  after  studying 
his  face  for  a  moment,  "  and  one  cannot  do 
much  for  them  ;  but  they  know  they  will 
never  call  upon  me  in  vain,  and  more  than 
all,  they  feel  that  they  are  mine,  my  very  own. 
And  rough,  as  I  freely  grant  they  are — wrang- 
ling, swearing,  drunken,  drowning — they  all 
have  that  heroic  stuff  in  them  which  you  de- 
spise and  I  prize  beyond  everything.  Doubt- 
less it  is  the  savage  in  me  which  gives  me  the 
power  to  endure  the  sight  of  it  all.  Oh,  believe 
me,  there  can  be  no  other  life  so  hard  •  -no 


I^O  JACK  O'DOON. 

such  suffering — as  upon  the  sea;  and  because 
no  such  sutfering,  no  such  heroism  ;  and  when 
I  see  an  old  sailor  die,  it  makes  me  feel  such 
intense  sympathy  for  him,  that  I  almost  could 
be  heroic.  The  grandest  power  of  the  sea  is 
the  strength  it  brings  out  in  those  who  suffer 
at  their  work  upon  it." 

As  she  ceased  speaking,  her  eyes  tilled  with 
passionate  tears,  and  she  could  not  have  said 
m.ore  if  she  had  wished  ;  but  her  breast 
heaved,  and  it  seemed  to  Abercrombie  that 
there  were  many  thoughts  she  would  have 
uttered  if  she  could.     Mercy  covered  her  face. 

The  man  saw  that  her  nerves  had  been 
overtaxed,  but,  as  she  approached  the  garden 
gate,  she  dried  her  eyes. 

Bill  Junk  was  at  the  door,  and  Mercy  told 
him  of  O'Doon's  death,  and  ordered  a  basket- 
ful of  food  to  be  sent  to  the  cabm. 

When  they  were  once  more  in  the  sitting- 
room,  the  girl  sank  into  a  chair,  shaking  vio- 
lently. 

"  What  is  it  ?  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  cried 
Algie  in  desperation,  endeavoring  very  gently 
to  take  her  hands  from  her  face. 

"  Oh,  nothing,"  said  Mercy,  "  but  it  seems 
as  if  I  could  stand  all  kinds  of  things  like  a 
rock,  until  they  are  over,  and  then  all  of  a 
sudden,  oh,  something — I  don't  know  what — 
gets  the  matter  with  me,  and  I  feel  as  if  my 
heart  had  almost  stopped  beating,  and  some- 
thing hurts  me  so,  here  ! "  she  exclaimed, 
pressing  her  hand  on  her  breast. 


JA  CK  O'DOON.  I  r  J 

"  You  are  killing  yourself  for  all  these  old 
ruffians  !  " 

"  They  are  mine,  I  should  be  willing  to  die 
for  them." 

The  speech  and  look,  although  they  would 
never  have  been  expressed  had  she  not  been 
exhausted  beyond  control,  were  such  exponents 
of  Mercy's  character,  that  Algie  always  re- 
membered them.  Such  a  passionate  devotion, 
m.isguided  though  it  often  was,  he  had  never 
seen.  But  when  the  excitement  had  subsided, 
her  cheeks  became  livid,  and  Algie  rang  for 
Antonio.  As  soon  as  the  old  man  saw  his 
young  mistress,  he  hurried  to  mix  a  "  hot 
Scotch  "  ;  and,  while  the  water  seemed  slow  to 
boil,  sat  grumbling  over  the  kettle,  exasperated 
at  Mercy's  unqualified  self-sacrifi.ce. 

"  Look  a-here,  Tony,"  interrupted  Bill  Junk, 
"  don't  you  be  a  begrudgin'  ole  Ned  his  little 
bit  o'  com.fort  at  the  las'  ;  you  knows  ef  'twas 
you  (and  you  may  bless  the  Lord  A'mighty  it 
ain't)  you'd  a  been  glad  to  a-had  her  thar. 
The  Lord'll  give  her  her  due  when  the  payin' 
time  comes.  Jest  don't  you  be  a-grumblin'  at 
the  chances  she's  took  to  save  up  His  favors. 
All  yer  little  beads,  and  yer  grimy  little  doll 
babies  ain't  equal  to  one  live  woman  by  a 
long  shot.  Hurry  up  them  kettles  and  don't 
be  puttin'  no  complaints  in  the  way  o'  the 
Lord's  doin's," 

It  was  not  often  that  Bill  Junk  was  struck 
with  even  an  emotional  wave  of  religion,  but 
when  he  was  he  managed  to  let  it  fall  with  a 


152  JACK  O'DOON. 

good  break,  on  both  Tony  and  Splugen,  both 
of  whom  stood  rather  in  awe  of  him, 

"  Here  comes  the  old  skipper  now.  He's 
a-blowin'  his  nose  frightful,"  said  Splugen, 
who  was  looking  out  of  the  window. 

"  I'll  jest  cook  this  here  beefsteak  about 
half,"  said  Bill  Junk,  turning  it  over  on  the 
broiler,  "an'  they  can  finish  it  to-night.  Like 
ez  not,  I'll  be  thar  myself,"  for  Bill  dearly  loved 
conviviality,  and  a  "wake"  was  better  than 
nothing  festive  at  all. 

The  Captain  ascended  the  stairs  with  a  slow 
and  ponderous  tread,  grunting  at  every  step. 

"  Well,  there  ain't  no  more  of  'em  !  "  he 
said,  slamming  the  door  behind  him,  and 
stutfing  his  red  handkerchief  half  way  into 
his  coat-tail  pocket.  "  When  the  young  ones 
goes,  it's  time  the  ole  ones  was  gittin'  out  o' 
the  way  ;  and  I  never  yet  knowed  the  day 
when  ole  Ned  didn't  do  the  right  thing  in  the 
right  place,  an'  darn'd  quick  too  !  " 

The  Captain's  manner  was  brusque  and 
severe,  and  did  not  suggest  the  fact  that,  be- 
cause of  the  tenderness  of  his  heart,  he  had 
been  wandering  among  the  sand-hills,  talking 
to  himself,  for  a  good  half  hour,  and  I  fear  the 
old  fellow  would  resent  it  if  I  added  that  his 
eyes  were  red,  as  though  he  had  been  weep- 
ing. 

"  The  Lord  bless  him  !  "  he  ejaculated  after 
a  pause,  during  which  he  had  been  chasing 
his  handkerchief  around  his  legs  and  blowing 
his   nose    again.     "  I    ain't    never  know'd  no 


J  A  CK  O'DOON.  J  J-  , 

honester  man.  Mercy,  you'd  better  fetch  ole 
Margery  up  here.  There's  bread  enough  for 
one  more,  I  reckon  ;  an'  there  ain't  no  use  of 
us  keepin'  up  two  establishments  like"  (as  if 
he  did  not  already  support  a  dozen).  "Jest 
you  fetch  her  along,  and  tell  her  I'm  agreeable; 
and  I  ain't  got  no  objections.  Not  that  there's 
any  use  o'  my  havin'  none,  ef  I  were  a  min* 
to.  There  ain't  no  use  fur  no  man  to  have  no 
'pinions  in  this  worl'  !  I  tell  you,  young  man, 
the  day's  a-comin',  an'  it's  close  on  han'  too, 
when  men's  rights  is  got  to  be  purtected  ! 
Where  ye  gwine  to  now  ?  "  interrupting  him- 
self impatiently  to  interrogate  Mercy. 

"  I'm  going  to  Mother  Margery's,"  said 
she. 

"  Lord,  ain't  you  got  enough  of  it  I  It  do 
turn  my  stomick  to  see  a  woman  run  after 
dead  folks  so  !  Set  down  !  Send  Splugen  I 
Send  Tony  1  Send  Polly  !  Let  her  take  'em 
some  of  them  little  bits  o'  paper.  It'll  'muse 
'em  like  ;  but  do  set  down  I  " 

Just  then  Antonio  appeared  with  the  hot 
toddy.  The  smell  of  it  roused  the  Captain, 
and  he  braced  himself  up,  while  Tony 
"  fetched  her  out  I  " 

Mercy  shook  her  head  negatively  at  Algie, 
whose  glance  implored  her  to  stay,  as  she 
moved  toward  the  door. 

The  Captain  spread  his  handkerchief  over 
his  knee,  and  proceeded  in  a  tone  of  disgust  : 
"  There  ain't  no  use  a-talkin'  to  her  !  I  ain't 
no  more  vally  than  a  green  catapillar  what 


It- A  JACK  O' DOOM. 

can't  do  more'n  hatch  a  butterfly,  and  there 
she  be  I  "  crooking  his  thumb  over  his  shoul- 
der tragically,  and  looking  at  Algie  for  sym- 
pathy, which  was  given  abundantly. 


JACK  O'DOON. 


IS5 


CHAPTER  XII. 

F  Mercy  had  ever  experienced  any 
great  personal  sorrow,  she  could 
not  have  so  courageously  borne 
such  a  constant  strain  of  sympathy 
for  others.  As  it  was,  she  had  the  ignorance 
and  energy  of  youth  to  sustain  her,  and,  full 
of  the  benevolence  of  her  mission,  went  on 
her  way,  although  with  a  divided  heart. 

Abercrombie  had  been  so  devoted  that, 
never  before  having  had  so  charming  a  com- 
panion, she  felt  for  the  first  time  how  painlul 
it  was  to  tear  herself  from  youth  and  pleasure 
to  devote  her  thoughts  to  old  age  and  death. 

In  her  extreme  conscientiousness,  she  took 
herself  harshly  to  task,  as  she  plodded  along 
through  the  sand-hills,  because  her  heart 
perpetually  reverted  to  the  fireside  at  home, 
where  her  father  sat  grumbling,  and  Algie 
morosely  silent. 

It  did  not  occur  to  her  that  that  young  man 
would  stand  at  the  window  with  his  hands 
in  his  pockets  and  a  scowl  upon  his  face, 
damning  his  luck  in  being  left  to  watch  her 
racing  before  the  wind,  and  wishing  he  were 
going  too,  even  into  a  graveyard  or  mortu- 
ary chapel,  rather  than  being  left  alone. 


156  JACK  O'DOON. 

He  pulled  his  moustache  fiercely. 

Her  determination,  her  unyouthful  youth, 
her  over-positiveness,  exasperated  him.  «'  Why 
couldn't  she  stay  quietly  at  home,  and  leave 
the  O'Doons,  dead  or  alive,  to  the  fisher-folk 
now  gathering  like  crows  about  that  wretched 
hovel  ?  But  no  !  she  must  gratify  her  own 
predilections  at  any  cost.  Women  of  that 
type  have  very  fine  sentiments,  but  they  take 
care  never  to  do  anything  they  don't  want  to 
do  !" 

The  Captain  was  thinking  about  the  same 
thing  ;  but  he  hated  solitude,  and  grumbled 
very  loud,  although  neither  man  paid  the 
slightest  attention  to  the  other. 

Just  then  Algie  caught  sight  of  Splugen 
coming  out  of  the  house  with  a  huge  hamper 
upon  his  shoulder,  and,  rather  than  be  alone, 
seized  his  yarn  cap  and  rushed  after  him. 

When  they  had  gone  but  a  short  distance, 
he  was  exasperated  at  finding  that  his  com- 
panion would  talk  only  of  Mercy's  goodness. 
He  was  sick  of  that  already,  though  free  to 
grant  that  she  nursed  the  sick,  fed  the  poor, 
and  comforted  the  miserable.  But  he  was 
tired  to  death  of  it.  He  was  miserable  him- 
self !  Why  dawdle  with  an  old  sailor  and 
listen  to  his  yarns  ? 

What  was  Mercy  ?  Nothing  but  a  stub- 
born, goody-good  little  prig  !  He  detested 
prigs.  He  preferred  girls  with  more  com- 
mon sense  and  humanity.  Saints  were  so 
self-righteous  ! 


J  A  CK  O'DOON.  T  -  7 

He  got  out  a  cigarette  and  a  box  of  wax- 
matches  ;  but  the  wind  was  as  outrageous  as 
the  people,  and  blew  them  out  one  after  an- 
other. 

He  threw  the  cigarette  away  and  stamped 
upon  it,  rubbing  it  into  the  sand  with  the  toe 
of  his  shoe,  until  he  felt  like  a  fool  and  looked 
like  one,  walking  on  in  angry  silence. 

But  the  fact  that  Mercy  was  not  easily  won 
from  her  old  friends  made  him  so  much  the 
more  vehement  that  she  should  turn  wholly 
to  himself ;  and  notwithstanding  that  he  had 
berated  her,  he  was  tenaciously  thinking  of 
her,  and  found  himself  saying  :  "  So  fond  and 
true  and  companionable." 

Though  he  had  deserted  Splugen,  his  steps 
trended  toward  the  sea,  until  he  arrived  at 
the  village,  whither  he  had  been  but  a  few- 
hours  before  in  her  company. 

It  was  deserted.  The  cabin-doors  were 
open  or  ajar.  Only  one  house  seemed  inhab- 
ited. The  inside  of  that,  as  regards  material, 
was  much  like  the  O'Doons'  ;  but  it  lacked 
the  poetry  which  pervaded  Jack's  home.  An 
old  woman  was  sitting  beside  the  fire  with  a 
child  at  her  feet. 

"  Come  in,"  said  she,  in  a  querulous  voice, 
"  there  ain't  none  o'  the  folks  to  hum.  But 
bein'  as  ye're  here,  ye  kin  jest  set  down," — 
rapping  a  chair  with  a  cane  she  had  taken 
from  the  chimney-corner. 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Algie  graciously,  "they 
are  all  gone  to  the  O'Doons'." 


158  JACK  O'DOON. 

"  Yes,  they  says  ole  Ned  is  dead  at  las'. 
He  have  seen  a  sight  o'  tribulation  in  his  day, 
not  ez  he  didn't  desarve  every  bit,  an'  more. 
I  hearn  ez  Mercy,  en  some  sort  o'  strange 
man,  jes'  happen'd  thar  in  season.  Like  ez 
not  you  be  the  man  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Abercrombie,  chafing  at  her 
rude  familiarity  in  calling  Mercy  by  her 
Christian  name. 

"  That  Mercy  be  alius  a-steppin'  in  when 
there  ain't  nara  a  soul  a-lookin'  fur  her. 
She's  sort  o'  like  her  daddy  en  her  mammy 
both.  Like  ez  not  ye  never  seed  her  mammy. 
She  died  afore  your  time  p'r'aps.  Leastways 
Mercy  never  seed  her  herself.  Them  O'Doons 
alius  war  a  prancin'  lot.  With  their  heads 
so  high,  they  kinder  b'lieve  that  gal  b'longs  to 
'em.  An'  that  Jack,  a  fine  lad  they  say,  but 
settin'  up  ter  be  a  scholar  !  I  ain't  got  no 
patience  with  no  sech  !  "  She  stopped  speak- 
ing, and,  taking  a  clay-pipe  out  of  her  mouth, 
spat  into  the  fire. 

She  was  so  rank  of  turpentine  and  tobacco 
that  Abercrombie  could  scarcely  endure 
her. 

"  I'm  afraid  the  family  is  about  wound  up 
now,"   said  he. 

♦•  Yes,  that's  my  notion,  but  Mercy  is  that 
obstinate,  'tain't  nothin'  but  pure  contrari- 
ness, she  won't  believe  nothin'  she  don't  see, 
en'  she  keeps  a-tellin'  that  ole  fool  Margery 
not  to  give  up  hopes  ;  but  it's  a  rare  luck  to 
hope    agin    sich    evidence  ;  en  we  uns,  least- 


JACK  O' BOOK.  ICQ 

ways,  we  sailor  folks,  knows  well  enough,  the 
sea  don't  give  back  no  dead." 

She  poked  the  fire  with  her  stick,  talking 
almost  inarticulately  with  the  pipe  in  her 
mouth.  Then,  withdrawing  it,  she  chuckled 
tc  herself,  like  a  hideous  witch  grinning  at 
the  thought  of  youth  and  hope. 

«'  Miss  Blessington  is  devoted  to  you  all," 
said  he. 

"Who,  Mercy?"  she  exclaimed  scorn- 
fully. 

«'  Yes,"  responded  Algie,  provoked. 

*'  Yes,"  she  repeated,  "  an'  well  she  may 
be.  How  many  on  us  is  lost  our  young  men 
folks,  a-toilin'  in  her  daddy's  boats  to  make 
money  fur  him  1  " 

"  They  were  making  a  living  for  themselves 
as  well,"  said  Algie,  angry  at  her  ingratitude. 
"  Do  you  think  Mercy  owes  you  anything 
because  her  father  gives  your  men  employ- 
ment, and  doubtless  good  wages  as  well  ? 
They  choose  their  calling,  and  must  take  their 
chances." 

"  Oh,  the  Capting  is  fa'renuff,  furall  I  knows 
to  the  contrary.  I  ain't  never  hearn  o'  his 
owin'  no  man  nary  a  dollar.  But  he's  that 
big  a  fool,  and  there  ain't  no  fool  like  a  ole 
one,  his  head  is  jes'  completely  turned  with 
that  gal.  Not  but  what'n  she's  a  fine  enuff 
gal,  I'll  'low  !  There  ain't  bin  a  Sunday  this 
whole  winter,  an'  many's  the  day  besides,  but 
she's  brung  me  a  bowl  o'  soup,  er  a  beef- 
steak, er    a  sassage,   er  somethin'  like  ;    but 


l5o  JACK  O'DOON. 

that  nasty  fellow,  Bill  Junk,  I  hates  the  groun* 
he  walks  on.  Don't  never  put  no  salt  in 
nothin'  !  I  likes  things  tasty  ef  I  were 
poor  !  " 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  said  Abercrombie, 
"  that  you  ought  to  be  thankful  to  her,  in- 
stead of  grumbling  so  much  ;  for  there  are  not 
many  girls,  none  that  I  know  of,  who  would 
be  willing  to  take  so  much  trouble  for  an  old 
woman  like  you  ;  especially  when  she  doesn't 
get  any  credit  for  her  pains." 

"Oh,  that's  jest  the  way  with  ye  rich  uns. 
Ye  gits  a  sight  o'  money  out'n  us  poor  folks, 
and  then  ye  gits  the  big  head,  an'  is  so  stuck 
up,  ye  ain't  got  the  time  to  spar'  to  be  a- 
thinkin'  about  the  likes  o'  us.  Git  out'n  here, 
I  can't  abide  ye  !  "  she  cried  suddenly,  waving 
her  cane  at  Algie,  who  backed  out  of  the 
cabin  in  sheer  horror,  and  only  recovered 
himself  when  he  was  at  some  distance  upon 
the  beach. 

Had  he  reflected,  he  would  have  seen  that 
the  old  woman's  jealousy  of  the  O'Doons  was 
the  cause  of  her  spitefulness. 

If  Mercy  could  forgive  her,  after  listening 
patiently  to  such  tirades  whenever  she  came 
within  hearing,  it  was  quite  absurd  that  Aber- 
crombie should  be  indignant,  when  he  had 
left  the  house  on  purpose  to  ventilate  the  hate- 
ful thoughts  he  had  been  thinking  of  her,  and 
which  had  emanated  from  the  same  cause, 
namely,  jealousy  of  the  O'Doons. 

But  though  he  was  quite   willing,   upon  oc- 


J  A  CK  o'doon: 


lOr 


casion,  to  abuse  those  whom  he  loved,  he  re- 
sented it  fiercely  if  others  did  so,  even  in  a 
milder  degree. 

When  still  far  from  Mother  Margery's  cabin, 
he  saw  two  figures  wandering  on  the  beach, 
v;hich  finally  disposed  themselves  upon  a  pile 
of  wreckage.  He  correctly  surmised  that 
they  were  Mother  Margery  and  Mercy. 

Satisfied  to  be  within  sight  of  her,  he  sat 
down  upon  a  spar  and  watched  the  incoming 
tide,  with  that  practised  habit  of  study  which 
an  artist  acquires  through  his  imagination, 
ever  carrying  about  with  him  the  spiritual 
body  of  a  color-box. 

Abercrombie  began  saymg  to  the  artist-soul 
within  him,  "  Cobalt,  rose,  madder,  white, 
and  a  touch  of  Naples  yellow,"  mixing  them 
upon  an  imaginary  palette,  with  an  imagin- 
ary knife,  and  trying  them  against  the  extreme 
distance.  "  Antwerp  blue,  raw  umber,  yel- 
low ochre  for  the  deep  hollows  of  the  waves  ; 
Indian  red,  and  white,  perhaps  a  very  little 
cadmium  for  the  shrimp-pink  lights  w^here  the 
waves  leap  up  and  catch  the  sun."  Then  he 
painted  away  briskly,  all  on  a  visionary  can- 
vas, until  at  last  some  tritle  aroused  him,  and 
he  found  himself  robbed  of  his  canvas,  sitting 
with  empty  hands,  alone  upon  a  shining  beach, 
watching  the  foam  drawing  a  little  nearer  every 
time  the  waves  came  in. 

After   a  while,   having  waited  in    vain   for 
Mercy  to  notice  him,  he  returned  to  Blessing- 
ton  House. 
II 


1 62  JACK  O'DOON. 

The  Captain  was  still  asleep  in  his  chair  ; 
and  Aunt  Polly,  having  rigid  ideas  of  Sabbath- 
keeping,  was  not  visible. 

At  length,  overpowered  by  the  loneliness, 
he  went  into  the  studio.  It  was  a  long  room 
and  allowed  a  good  length  to  walk  ;  but  his 
thoughts  hovered  about  the  little  hut  under 
the  sand-hill. 

Again  and  again  he  stopped  at  the  window 
and  peered  out  into  the  twilight  to  see  if 
Mercy  were  coming. 

But  at  last,  as  there  was  not  the  faintest 
vision  of  anything  moving,  quite  out  of  heart, 
he  took  his  cap  and  went  below.  The  door 
which  led  into  the  room  used  by  the  three 
sailors  as  a  galley  was  ajar.  He  paused  upon 
the  threshold  and  looked  in. 

«' Has  Miss  Blessington  come?"   he  asked. 

"  Lord,  no,  sir,"  said  Bill  Junk  affably.  "  She 
ain't  goin'  to  leave  ole  Margery,  not  her,  sir." 

"  Can  she  be  going  to  stay  in  that  awful 
place  all  night  I  "  he  exclaimed,  half  aloud. 

"  There  ain't  no  tellin',  sir,  she  do  pretty 
much  what  she's  a  mind  to." 

Algie  went  out  and  started  along  the  path, 
which  was  obscure  in  the  moonlight  ;  but  he 
felt  as  if  possessed.  Suddenly  turning  the 
angle  of  a  sand-dune,  he  espied  a  dark  figure 
hurrying  toward  him.  He  was  startled,  but 
Mercy's  voice  reassured  him. 

"  Don't  be  afraid  of  me,"  she  said  ;  "why 
have  you  come  out  ?  " 

Abercrombie  grasped  her  hand,  as  if  he  had 


JACK  O'DOON.  J 5-, 

not  seen  her  in  years  ;  he  was  so  glad  to  touch 
her  once  more,  after  all  the  hard  things  he  had 
been  thinking  about  her. 

"  I  don't  know  why  I  have  come  to  look  for 
you,"  he  replied,  "  since  I  could  not  imagine 
^hat  either  my  wishes  or  opinions  would 
weigh  with  you  one  atom  ;  but  it  did  seem 
so  unearthly  for  you  to  stay  there  all  night, 
that  I  might  have  been  guilty  of  the  folly  of 
going  to  beg  you  to  come  back  with  me." 

"  I  could  not  come  before,"  she  said,  al- 
though she  did  not  tell  him.  how  much  she 
had  wished  to.  "  I  have  been  trying  to  get 
Mother  Margery  to  come  home  with  me,  but 
she  won't  come,  although  half  the  village  is 
there  to  wake  the  dead.  She  feels  that  this  is 
the  very  last  one  of  all,  and  I  suppose  it  is 
natural.  If  I  were  she,  I  should  wish  to  be 
faithful,  even  to  the  grave.  However,  that  is 
but  a  dog-like,  senseless  kind  of  fidelity,  which 
can  do  no  good  to  any  one." 

"  I'm  thankful  you've  come  home,"  said 
he  almost  tenderly,  and  his  voice  sounded 
more  gentle  in  the  darkness.  "  Aren't  you 
afraid  to  walk  alone  across  these  marshes  ? 
Suppose  you  lost  your  way.  There  surely 
must  be  quicksand  hereabout,  for  the  tide 
rises  and  falls  in  the  lagoons.  You  are 
reckless,  I  think,  and  I  certainly  should  not 
allow  it." 

"  Perhaps  not,"  said  Mercy,  so  quietly  that 
Abercrombie  fancied  she  was  satirical. 

The  girl  felt  that  it  would  be  a  great  relief 


1 54  JACK  O'DOON. 

to  her  if  some  one  would  take  the  burden  of 
her  conscience,  and  say  distinctly  what  she 
might  and  what  she  might  not  do.  But  in- 
stead of  expressing  that  desire,  she  turned  to- 
ward him  and  said  half  mockingly,  "Who 
made  thee  thy  brother's  keeper  ?  " 

The  bantering  tone  belied  her  heart.  How 
could  he  know  that  she  had  been  reviling  her 
own  want  of  humanity  in  wishing  herself  at 
home  with  him  ;  and  now  thrust  him  bravely 
from  her,  in  order  to  protect  herself  from  the 
glamour  of  his  fascination  ? 

"  Every  man  has  a  right  to  look  out  for  any 
woman  when  occasion  demands  it  ;  else  do 
you  think  I  should  be  groping  among  these 
sand-hills,  with  the  hope  of  relieving  you  from 
a  kind  of  self-inflicted  martyrdom  .-*  I  wonder 
your  father  permits  you  to  act  so  !  " 

Mercy  was  silent  for  a  few  moments,  then 
she  replied  with  the  same  half-laughing  voice, 
"  Perhaps  it's  a  lucky  thing  for  me  that  you 
are  not  vested  with  my  father's  authority.  I'm 
afraid  I  should  become  quite  timid  !  "  never- 
theless she  thrilled  with  pleasure  that  he  had 
shown  the  desire  for  that  authority. 

Though  women  are  often  thus  perverse, 
their  perversity  is  used  to  protect  themselves, 
just  as  men  joke  to  divert  attention  from  tears 
they  are  ashamed  to  show.  Women  hate  to 
have  their  hearts  escape  from  their  own  keep- 
ing, and,  to  blind  the  inquisitive  eye,  will 
sometimes  belie  their  tenderest  feelings. 

Abercrombie   was   sensitive,    and    felt    re- 


JACK  O'DOON.  165 

buffed.  The  path  being  narrow,  he  walked 
ahead  ;  but  it  widened  as  they  approached  the 
house,  and  he  offered  her  his  arm. 

Mercy  felt  snubbed  and  very  quiet  ;  he  felt 
snubbed  and  quiet  too.  How  could  he  know 
that,  although  her  conscience  was  forever 
saddling  her  with  some  new  burden,  nothing 
short  of  death  could  ever  lay  aside  an  old 
one  ?  The  more  he  thought  of  her,  the  more 
a  martyr  the  girl  seemed,  and  the  more  he 
fancied  that  he  would  like  to  be  master  of  the 
situation. 

The  road  was  abominably  short,  although 
he  walked  as  slowly  as  he  could. 

The  next  day  Mercy  persistently  devoted 
herself  to  Mother  Margery.  The  Captain 
was  as  cross  as  two  sticks,  and  Aunt  Polly 
worse  than  nobody,  so  Algie  was  forced  to 
drudge  at  putting  a  sky  into  a  picture  ;  work- 
ing from  the  window,  whence  a  fine  cumulus 
cloud  could  be  seen  floating  grandly. 

In  the  evening  he  went  again  to  meet 
Mercy. 

"  How  much  longer  is  this  thing  going  to 
last  ?  "  he  inquired  impatiently. 

"  They  will  bury  him  to-morrow  and  that 
will  be  the  last  of  it,"  said  Mercy  reproach- 
fully. 

"  Well,  I'm  glad  of  it,"  he  exclaimed,  with 
more  candor  than  feeling.  Mercy  did  not 
reply.     Perhaps  she  thought  the  same. 

She  had  reason  to  be  weary  of  the  strain, 
having    played    a   tedious    part  all  day,   and 


1 66  JACK  O'DOON. 

done  justice  to  the  feeling  she  imitated,  so 
that  none  save  her  own  heart  had  known  its 
weariness. 

The  next  day  was  Tuesday.  After  break- 
fast the  Captain  spluttered  around  with  more 
steam  on  than  usual.  The  day  was  overcast, 
but  he  appeared  in  his  best  black  broadcloth 
coat.  A  new  broad-brimmed  silk  hat  was  in 
his  hand,  and,  when  not  otherwise  engaged, 
he  took  his  handkerchief  and  twirled  it 
flightily  around  the  crown,  and  held  the  hat 
to  catch  the  light. 

He  was  altogether  brand  new  from  top  to 
toe.  Even  his  shoes  had  an  extra  shine,  and 
he  had  taken  care,  to  provide  himself  against 
contingencies,  with  two  handkerchiefs,  one  in 
each  coat-tail  pocket. 

Aunt  Polly  presently  appeared  in  a  rustlmg 
black  silk  gown.  She  wore  an  old-fashioned 
black  bonnet,  very  flat  on  top  and  very  full 
over  the  ears,  to  which  was  attached  a  love 
veil. 

Mercy  went  about  her  affairs  much  af 
usual,  and  at  length  came  downstairs  carry, 
ing  a  large  prayer-book  in  her  arms. 

When  they  left  the  house,  Splugen  and  Bill 
Junk  accompanied  them.  Antonio,  being  a 
Roman  Catholic,  remained  at  home,  and  sat- 
isfied himself  with  making  occasional  remarks 
in  a  conciliatory  tone  to  the  image  in  the  cor- 
ner, at  whose  feet  he  was  busily  engaged  in 
rubbing  the  household  silver.  Now  and  then 
he  glanced  in  the  direction  of  the  graveyard. 


JACK  O'DOON.  i^y 

The  Captain  and  Aunt  Polly  walked  ahead, 
he  stepping  out  with  imposing  swagger, 
while  she  minced  along,  her  silk  dress  crink- 
ling in  the  light. 

Algie  and  Mercy  followed,  and  afterward 
Lame  Splugen  and  Bill  Junk.  They  could 
hear  the  parrot  screaming  angrily  at  being 
left  behind.  Sailor,  suspecting  that  some- 
thing was  about  to  happen,  had  hid  outside 
the  gate,  and  came  cringing  after  them. 

When  they  reached  the  O'Doons'  cottage, 
they  found  a  goodly  number  already  assem- 
bled— very  plain  folk,  with  rough  skins  and 
sunburnt  locks.  Some  of  the  women  had 
babies  in  their  arms,  others  led  young  chil- 
dren by  the  hand. 

All  gave  place  to  the  Captain's  family. 
Mercy,  leaving  Abercrombie,  joined  Mother 
Margery. 

O'Doon's  body  had  been  sewed  up  in  a 
hammock,  and  lay  stretched  on  a  rude  bier. 

The  scene  was  strange  to  Abercrombie. 
It  was  grief  without  ceremony,  but  the  tears 
were  real. 

Six  men  took  up  the  bier,  and  started  along 
the  beach  with  it,  and  the  rest  of  the  folk  fell 
into  a  double  line,  and  followed.  Some  one 
with  a  nasal  voice  raised  a  droning  hymn  to 
the  moan  of  the  now  ebbing  tide,  and  all 
joined  in  the  singing,  keeping  step  to  the  dis- 
mal cadence. 

The  Captain  walked  beside  the  bier,  carry- 
ing in  his  hand  the  prayer-book  which  Mercy 


1 68  J  A  CK  O'DOON. 

had  provided.  He  had  some  difficulty  in  get- 
ting his  great  silver-rimmed  spectacles  out  of 
their  long  tin  case,  but  having  succeeded,  he 
closed  it  with  a  snap  and  returned  it  to  his 
pocket.  Mercy  having  placed  a  conspicuous 
marker  at  the  first  page  of  the  burial  service,  he 
was  able  to  find  the  place.  Holding  the  book 
well  up  before  his  eyes,  and  leaning  his  head 
very  far  back,  he  read  a  few  paragraphs  in  his 
deepest  voice,  while  the  people  left  off  singing 
to  listen. 

Then  they  sang  another  hymn,  I  had  al- 
most said  another  incantation — it  was  so  dron- 
ing and  oracular — dying  away  at  times  to  one 
voice.    It  sounded  barbaric  to  Abercrombie. 

He  looked  at  Mercy,  but  she  was  preoccu- 
pied with  Mother  Margery,  who  walked  along, 
staring  at  the  passing  sand. 

When  they  had  left  the  sea  and  skirted  the 
little  hamlet,  they  took  an  indefinite  path 
across  the  hills,  and  came  at  last  to  a  forlorn 
graveyard,  enclosed  by  a  writhing  windbreak 
of  pitch-pine  and  cedar.  There  were  graves 
in  it  marked  with  gravestones  driven  by 
hard  gusts  into  every  attitude  and  covered 
with  black  lichens  like  hieroglyphics  of  woe. 

One  grave  only  bore  wreaths  of  immortelles. 
The  graveyard  was  on  a  high  white  bluff,  so 
that  the  grave  was  deep  and  dry,  and  a  box 
was  already  lowered  into  it. 

They  all  stood  around,  while  the  Captain 
proceeded  with  the  solemn  service. 

When  they  had  finished  the  last  sad  duty 


JACK  O'DOON.  l6g 

of  filling  the  grave,  the  people  waited  for  the 
Captain  to  move  away,  but  the  Captain  had 
something  to  say. 

"  My  friends,"  he  began,  after  a  moment's 
silence,  during  which  he  had  blown  his  nose 
reflectively  and  put  on  his  hat,  "  we  have  all 
come  here  this  day  to  perform  the  last  solemn 
duty  o'  layin'  away  our  ole  frien'  O'Doon. 
He  were  a  good  frien'  to  all  on  us,  to  you, 
ez  well  ez  to  me,  en  while  he  was  livin'  we 
loved  to  call  him  Ned,  'ole  Ned,' some  did, 
not  ez  he  were  so  very  ole  neither,  seein'  ez  he 
were  jes'  ten  year  older'n  me,  and  I  am — 
I  am — let  me  see  !     How  old  am  I,  Mercy  ?  " 

"  Fifty-seven  in  June." 

"  Yes,"  continued  the  Captain  with  em- 
phasis, "  seein'  ez  I  be  fifty-seven  in  June. 
But  when  ye  see  his  name,  we'll  put  Ed- 
ward on  the  tombstone,  bein'  ez  it's  more 
polite  like ;  en  when  the  likes  o'  ye  what's 
growin'  up  to  catchin'  no  fish  at  all — but  livin' 
in  idleness,"  glancing  at  the  small  boys, 
"  when  the  likes  o'  ye  sees  the  name  o'  Ed- 
ward O'Doon  on  his  gravestone,  ye'll  remem- 
ber he  were  a  man  that  ain't  had  no  superior 
fordarin'  ter  do  whatever  he  were  bid.  I've 
seed  him  when  he  were  a  strong  young  man, 
and  I  were  a  cabin-boy,  knocked  ez  flat  ez 
a  flounder,  when  a  sail's  a-busted,  an'  the 
ragged  ole  canvas  had  flung  out  a  arm  like, 
and  struck  him  dead  fur  a  time  !  He  war  a 
brave  man  to  the  backbone.  An'  I've  seed 
him  climb  aloft  when  the    win'  war   strainin' 


I  7 O  JACK  O'DOON. 

the  ship-timbers  that  hard,  it  'peared  like  the 
jib-boom  war  a-tryin'  to  swop  places  with  the 
spanker.  Thar  wa'nt  nothin'  he  know'd  he 
war  afeared  on." 

The  Captain  paused,  and  glanced  contempt- 
uously at  the  rabble  of  boys  collected  in  a 
group  and  staring  curiously  at  him,  apparently 
much  impressed. 

"  An',  I  guess  thar  ain't  many  o'ye'll  be  like 
him  !  An'  his  sons,  what  war  every  one  on 
'em  chips  o'  the  ole  block,  is  climbed  ter  the 
very  top-gallant  mast,  and  the  Lord  knows, 
ez  I  believe,  they're  keepin'  on  a-climbin' 
still  !  " 

The  Captain's  voice  broke  and,  he  stopped 
and  turned  away,  blowing  his  nose,  and  so 
burying  his  face  in  his  handkerchief  that  he 
did  not  see  the  short,  broad,  muscularly  built, 
open-browed  young  man,  who  stood  at  his 
elbow  ;  but  Mercy  did,  and  uttered  a  cry,  en-- 
deavoring  to  reach  him,  but  fell  at  his  feet 
insensible. 


JACK  O'DOON.  jyj 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

SUDDEN  look  of  joy  in  the 
stranger's  face  had  responded  to 
Mercy's  recognition,  while  the 
crowd,  aroused  by  the  cry  as  she 
had  fallen,  turned  to  look  at  the  man. 

Mother  Margery  pressed  her  hands  upon 
her  temples  as  if  she  were  going  mad  ;  the 
boys  stared  curiously  at  him,  and  Algie,  with 
premonitory  aversion,  felt  his  heart  sink,  for 
the  stranger  was  none  other  than  Jack  O'Doon, 
who,  as  if  to  belie  the  Captain's  words,  had 
appeared  thus  mysteriously  amongst  them. 

"  O  God  !  Can  it  be  true  ?  "  passed  like  a 
questioning  prayer  from  Mother  Margery's 
lips,  for  she  doubted  the  evidence  of  her 
wearied  senses,  and  drew  back  incredulous. 
But  Jack,  who  had  a  full  and  terrible  realiza- 
tion of  the  scene,  leaned  across  Mercy's  pros- 
trate figure  and  touched  his  mother's  hand, 
saying  : 

"  Yes,  thank  God  mother,  it  is  true." 

And  then  he  stooped  down  and  lifted  the 
girl,  who  lay  looking  as  if  she  were  dead. 

"  Mercy,  Mercy  !  "  cried  the  Captain,  shak- 
ing her  roughly  in  his  distress.  But  there 
was  no  appearance  of  life. 


172  J  A  CK  O'DOON. 

The  crowd  pressed  forward  breathlessly, 
ruthlessly  trampling  over  the  new-made 
grave. 

Abercrombie,  pale  with  fear  and  jealousy, 
volunteered  a  conjecture  :  "  She  must  have 
fainted.     Lay   her   down." 

'•  No  !  "  said  Jack,  glancing  with  weather- 
wise  eyes  at  the  cloud-rack  beating  in,  ragged 
and  black  from  the  sea.  "  No  !  "  he  repeated, 
with  the  decision  of  a  man  accustomed  to 
command,  and  taking  Mercy  up  in  his  arms 
as  if  she  had  been  a  child,  he  stolidly  walked 
away  with  her  toward  the  cluster  of  huts. 

The  moment  he  had  gained  a  few  steps  in 
advance  of  the  others,  he  looked  yearningly 
into  the  pale  face  against  his  shoulder,  and 
heaved  an  anxious  sigh,  muttering :  "  My 
darling,  my  darling  !  " 

He  felt  that  he  had  been  of  late  under  an 
evil  star,  which,  in  default  of  bringing  death 
to  himself,  had  seen  him  saved  out  of  deadly 
peril  to  find  his  father  dead,  no  doubt  of  grief 
for  him,  and  Mercy  overwhelmed  at  his  re- 
turn. 

He  recollected  that  he  had  often  seen  her 
press  her  hand  upon  her  heart  as  if  there 
were  pain  there,  and  heard  her  say  that  it 
felt  as  if  it  were  stopping. 

With  this  sudden  terror  in  his  breast  he 
looked  at  her  again,  clasping  her  closer  and 
leaning  his  ear  over  until  his  cheek  almost 
touched  her  lips.  She  was  very  cold,  and  he 
could  not  perceive  her  breathing. 


JACK  O'DOON.  ly^ 

As  usual,  Granny  Gooch's  door  stood  open, 
and  Jack  strode  in,  terrifying  the  old  crone 
almost  out  of  her  wits. 

She  thought  he  was  a  ghost  and  began 
shrieking  so  wildly  that  she  could  not  easily 
be  quieted. 

Her  dirty  bed  was  covered  with  a  ragged 
quilt,  l)ut  not  seeing  anything  better  Jack  laid 
Mercy  upon  it,  though  he  could  not  relinquish 
her  head  to  Granny  Gooch's  pillow%  which 
was  soiled  with  snuff  and  smelled  of  turpen- 
tine and  grease  ;  so  he  knelt  beside  her,  hold- 
ing her  head  on  his  arm. 

"Come  and  see  what's  the  matter,"  said  he, 
as  soon  as  his  mother  and  Mercy's  people  had 
finished  their  slower  steps  to  the  cabin. 

Aunt  Polly  was  in  a  rustling  fidget,  while 
Mother  Margery  unbuttoned  Mercy's  coat  and 
drew  off  her  gloves.  "  Her  hands  is  awful 
cold  !  Miss  Polly,  you  an'  the  Captain  'd 
better  pull  off'n  her  shoes  an'  rub  her  feet." 

"No,  I  can't  do  nothin' !  "  exclaimed  the 
Captain,  weeping  like  a  child. 

"  Here,  let  me,"  said  Abercrombie,  seeing 
that  everybody  was  in  everybody's  way,  and 
the  hut  had  become  crowded  with  confused 
and  helpless  people. 

Mercy's  feet  were  like  stone,  so  cold  and 
white,  and  Algie  and  Aunt  Polly,  in  extra- 
ordinary collaboration,  chafed  them  while 
Mother  Margery  loosened  her  clothes  and 
rubbed  her  hands. 

At  length,  with  a  shudder,  she  threw  out  her 


174  JACK  O'DOON. 

arms  and  turned  her  head  from  side  to  side, 
moaning  faintly  and  settled  her  face  against 
Jack's  shoulder  without  opening  her  eyes. 

The  moan  was  answered  by  a  sigh  of  relief 
from  those  watching  about  the  bed. 

Jack's  breast  thrilled  as  he  drew  her  im- 
perceptibly closer,  and  an  indescribable  look 
of  devotion  overspread  his  ingenuous  face. 

"  Mercy  !  "  he  whispered. 

There  was  no  answer,  and  the  watchers 
waited  in  silence  until  she  should  move  again. 

The  Captain  was  out  on  the  beach,  walking 
frantically  around  and  around  in  circles,  at 
intervals  rushing  up  and  down  the  sands  and 
into  the  cabin  as  if  he  were  "  possessed,"  ges- 
ticulating to  himself  and  sobbing  like  a  child. 
At  last  he  could  bear  his  anxiety  no  longer, 
and,  shoving  people  right  and  left,  he  came  to 
the  bedside,  and,  taking  Mercy's  hand,  shook 
it,  saying  :  ♦•  Mercy,  can't  you  wake  up  no 
more  ?  "  She  shivered,  and  opening  her  eyes 
looked  at  him  in  alarm. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  she  cried,  starting  up,  star- 
ing from  one  to  the  other  of  those  whose  eyes 
were  fixed  upon  her.  "  Oh,  I  can't  think — no 
— no — I  thought  it  was  Jack  !  "  and  she  fell 
back  upon   his  arm  again,  closing  her  eyes. 

"  It  is  Jack,  dear  Mercy,"  he  said,  "  I  have 
come  back." 

"  Dear  Jack,"  said  she,  opening  her  eyes 
and  looking  at  him  with  a  loving  smile  which 
gave  to  her  face  ineffable  beauty.  But  the 
effort  was  too  much,  and  she  closed   her  eyes 


JACK  O'DOON.  lyr 

again.  Her  breathing  now  was  less  labored  ; 
and  her  feet  and  hands  gradually  became 
warmer.  It  would  have  been  a  boon  if  she 
could  have  remained  quietly  sleeping,  but 
Granny  Gooch's  bed  was  not  a  fit  resting  place. 

"  Go,  mother,  and  see  how  fast  the  storm 
is  coming,"  said  Jack  ;  and  having  gone  to 
the  door,  Mother  Margery  replied  : 

•'  It's  a'most  here." 

"  Well,  we  must  get  her  home  at  once," 
said  he,  "  and  I  shall  carry  her.  She  mustn't 
lie  on  this  bed,  and  she  can't  walk." 

"  No,  John,  Miss  Polly's  that  contrary,  there 
ain't  no  sense  goin'  agin  her." 

"  She  sha'n't  stay  here,  and  Miss  Polly  be 
hanged  !  "  said  Jack. 

♦♦  My  son,  ain't  you  got  no  civiler  tongue 
nor  that  ?"  asked  Alother  Margery. 

"  All  the  same,  I  mean  to  carry  her.  Do 
put  on  her  shoes  and  stockings,  and  button 
up  her  clothes.  I  must  take  her  home. 
There  ain't  no  time  to  waste.  Git  caught 
down  here  in  the  rain,  there  won't  be  no  git- 
tin'  her  home.  If  you  women  folks  won't  put 
on  her  shoes,  why  let  me  do  it  myself.  The 
ole  skipper's  that  skeered  he  ain't  got  no 
sense,  an'  I  don't  know  nothin'  'bout  a  woman's 
clothes." 

So  Mother  Margery,  under  the  inhuence  of 
Jack's  assertiveness,  put  the  things  on,  and 
Algie  buttoned  the  shoes. 

The  Captain  stood  by  with  the  acquiescence 
of  a  man  dazed  by  a  blow. 


176  JACK  O'DOON. 

"  Now,  Captain,"  said  Jack,  when  all  was 
ready,  "  there  ain't  no  use  a-wastin'  precious 
time  here  talkin*.  Mercy  wants  to  sleep  ; 
she's  plumb  wore  out,  and  I'm  goin*  ter  take 
her  straight  home  to  her  own  bed,  if  you 
ain't  got  no  objections.  This  ain't  the  first 
time  you've  seed  me  tote  her,  and  I'll  jest 
walk  off  so."  Suiting  the  action  to  the  word, 
without  so  much  as  a  glance  at  Aunt  Polly, 
Jack,  who  had  thews  and  sinews  of  iron, 
leaned  over  the  bed,  picked  Mercy  up,  and 
carried  her  out  of  the  house,  whilst  she, 
opening  her  eyes,  and  conscious  of  her  help- 
lessness, put  her  arms  around  his  neck  to 
steady  herself. 

«'  You'll  give  out  afore  you  git  thar  !  " 

"  If  I  do,  then  you  come  help,"  said  Jack,  in 
answer  to  the  voice  from  the  crowd,  but  whether 
in  derision  or  earnest  it  was  hard  to  tell. 

"  That's  jest  the  way  these  peert  young  'uns 
'11  git  a-settin'  down  some  fine  day,"  said 
Granny  Gooch,  with  bitterness. 

"  Shut  up,  you  thankless  ole  hag  !  "  cried  a 
sailor  in  reply. 

Algie,  disgusted  at  such  rudeness,  and 
sick  with  emotion,  looked  about  him  at  the 
rough  faces  which  were  grave  with  anxiety, 
and  gave  him  little  comfort. 

He  could  not  bear  to  follow  Jack  with 
Mercy  in  his  arms.  He  was  so  alone  amid 
all  this  rude  life,  glowing  with  love  for  her, 
that  he  felt  as  if  he  were  in  a  distant  land, 
where  men  were  speaking  among  themselves 


JACK  O'DOON.  jy« 

an  unknown  tongue.  He  moved  away,  assur- 
ing himself  that  the  girl's  illness  was  hysteria 
consequent  upon  excessive  nervous  strain,  and 
refusing  to  believe  it  heart-disease. 

Then,  too,  Jack  had  taken  her  in  his  arms 
with  such  assurance,  as  if  she  were  his  very 
own,  and  had  shown  such  affection  in  every 
word  and  glance. 

If  Abercrombie  had  been  just,  he  would 
have  realized  that  a  man  of  such  masculinity 
as  Jack's  would  have  acted  just  so  toward 
any  woman  who  required  such  help. 

Algie  must  have  felt  the  raw  wind  cutting 
him  in  the  face,  and  heard  the  thwarted  surf 
raging  to  reach  the  cliffs,  and  seen  the  clouds 
sinking  lower  and  lower,  and  growing  blacker 
even  while  he  walked. 

Jack  had  known  their  menace,  but  knew  his 
strength  as  well  ;  for  many  a  time  he  had 
clung  to  the  sheets  when  the  wind  was  strug- 
gling like  a  giant  in  the  sail  and  his  arm  had 
seemed  as  dead.  That  practiced  strength 
would  not  fail  Mercy  in  her  need. 

He  might  have  carried  her  to  his  mother's, 
but  it  was  only  a  matter  of  endurance  to  take 
her  a  little  farther  to  the  luxury  of  her  own 
bed. 

There  was  not  even  a  cart-road  from  the 
village  direct  to  Blessington  House.  In  sum- 
mer, or  when  the  day  was  fair,  the  men 
fetched  provisions  in  the  boats,  which  were 
now  rocking  distractedly,  their  keels  aground 
in  the  shallow  water. 


1^8  JACK  O'DOON. 

So  now  that  Jack's  strength  was  essential, 
he  felt  an  exultation  in  it  joined  to  a  tender 
sense  of  possession,  as  he  strode  rapidly  along, 
carrying  her  upon  his  breast. 

When  they  had  gone  a  third  of  the  way, 
Mercy  whispered  to  Jack  to  put  her  down, 
and  she  leaned  against  him. 

"  It  was  my  heart,"  said  she.  "  When  I 
saw  you,  it  gave  a  great  jump  and  stopped, 
and  my  throat  got  rigid,  so  that  I  couldn't 
move  my  tongue,  and  it  choked  me  ;  and  then 
everything  got  smoky,  and  I  didn't  know 
anything  more." 

Aunt  Polly  and  the  Captain  overtook  them, 
and  presently  Mother  Margery  came  up,  with 
Bill  Junk  and  Splugen.  The  Captain  was 
speechless  with  delight  ;  but  Mercy,  seeing  the 
wet  furrows  in  his  cheeks,  realized  the  anguish 
he  had  suffered. 

"I'm  all  right  now,"  she  said  lovingly, 
"and  can  walk  if  I  lean  against  you," 

"  Let  me  carry  you  where  the  path  is  nar- 
row," said  Jack. 

Mercy  took  her  father's  arm,  and  Jack,  fall- 
ing back  to  join  his  mother,  held  her  hand 
quite  boyishly  as  they  walked  along. 

When  Abercrombie  emerged  from  the  sand- 
hills, Jack  enquired  v/ho  he  was. 

"He's  a  painter  man  what's  come  down  from 
Richmond,  and  is  a-stayin'  at  the  Captain's  to 
paint  Mercy's  picture,"  replied  his  mother. 

Jack  frowned  a  little,  and  surveyed  Algie 
with  a  momentary  feeling  of  suspicion. 


JACK  O'DOON.  179 

But  Algie  came  eagerly  forward  to  congrat- 
ulate Mercy,  and  offered  her  his  additional 
support. 

"  Thank  you,  very  much,"  said  she,  "I'm 
doing  very  well,  but,  as  you  know  already,  I 
have  much  more  confidence  in  Jack  than  in 
myself;  and  this  is  Jack!"  she  exclaimed, 
turning  to  present  the  two  men. 

"  I  certainly  am  glad  to  see  him,"  said  Algie, 
adding,  as  he  shook  hands  with  Jack,  "you 
never  can  know  how  welcome  you  are  back, 
unless  you  could  know  how  great  was  the 
despair  of  seeing  you  again." 

Jack  looked  at  Mercy,  but,  suddenly  feeling 
his  heart  too  full,  left  them  abruptly  by  the 
path  by  which  Abercrombie  had  come. 

"Come,  mother,"  he  called,  "I  reckon 
Mercy  don't  need  us  any  more  now,  and 
home's  the  place  for  you. 

"Good-bye,"  he  added,  nodding  once  or 
twice  to  those  he  was  leaving. 

Pulling  his  soft  hat  over  his  eyes,  he  walked 
away  among  the  sand-hills,  leaving  his  mother 
to  follow  more  slowly. 

Mercy  stood  watching  them  for  a  second, 
and  then,  as  if  apostrophizing  them  both,  ex- 
claimed.    "  How  good  they  are,  dear  souls  !" 

"Come  on,  Mercy  I  don't  stand  about  so 
long,"  said  Aunt  Polly,  who,  after  making 
every  allowance  for  sentiment,  could  not  feel 
otherwise  than  exasperated  at  Jack's  reap- 
pearance. 

Mercy  walked  along  slowly  with  her  father  ; 


l8o  JACK  O'DOON. 

and  Abercrombie,  silently  cursing  his  luck, 
was  forced  to  escort  Aunt  Polly,  who  bored 
him  intolerably,  even  to  the  creaking  of  her 
shoes  and  the  crinkling  of  her  stiff  silk  gown. 

When  they  had  reached  the  house,  Mercy 
wanted  to  go  at  once  to  her  room,  but  the 
Captain  was  still  in  such  anxiety  that  he  in- 
sisted that  Aunt  Polly  should  have  a  lounge 
brought  into  a  corner  of  the  dining-room,  and 
that  Mercy  should  be  put  to  bed  there,  so 
that  he  might  watch  over  her  without  interfering 
with  his  daily  routine,  for  there  was  nothing 
quite  so  odious  to  him  as  having  his  regular 
ways  interfered  with.  He  had  felt  all  topsy- 
turvy for  the  last  three  days,  and  wanted  to 
get  head  up  again  without  delay. 

"  I  declare,  father,"  Mercy  remonstrated, 
"  you  must  think  my  wings  are  ready  to  fly  I 
I'm  all  right,  only  I'm  tired  and  want  rest." 

The  Captain  looked  at  her  with  misgiving, 
while  Aunt  Polly,  with  grim  impatience,  held 
the  door  open. 

At  length  the  old  man  followed  the  girl  up 
the  stairs,  holding  her  arm  to  support  her  ; 
while  Abercrombie,  listening  below,  heard  the 
murmuring  of  voices,  and  Mercy's  plaintive 
protest  :  "  If  you  will  only  let  me  alone — only 
let  me  rest." 

"  For  the  Lord's  sake,  Polly,  don't  be  a 
contraryin'  the  chile  witli  no  more  o'  your 
damned  talk  !  "  the  Captain  had  finally  ex- 
claimed. 

Algie's  heart  sank  within  him  at  the  pros- 


JACK  O'DOON.  l8i 

pect  of  another  day  without  Mercy.  It  never 
occurred  to  him  to  ask  himself  how  he  had 
endured  twenty-six  years.  He  went  into  the 
studio  and  looked  at  his  picture.  The  sky  he 
had  thought  so  fine  yesterday  looked  ghastly 
to-day,  and  he  was  disposed  to  fling  a  brush 
at  it.  How  could  a  man  paint  when  in  such 
a  vile  temper  !  He  was  about  going  to  his 
room  when  he  was  amazed  to  find  the  Captain 
planted  like  a  sentinel  beside  Mercy's  door, 
apparently  settled  there  for  the  remainder  of 
the  afternoon. 

"  It  do  pester  me  so,"  he  began,  "  to  see 
folks  what  won't  let  nobody  alone  !  " 

"  Don't  be  troubled,"  said  Algie,  sympa- 
thetically, "  I  think  she's  all  right.  She  goes 
on  her  nerves  until  she's  nearly  dead,  but  all 
she  needs  to  set  her  up  again  is  rest." 

"  I'll  see  to  that  I  "  exclaimed  the  Captain, 
shaking  his  head. 

Abercrombie,  locked  in  against  intrusion, 
sat  down  in  the  chair  before  the  fire  and  de- 
termined to  be  miserable.  But  he  wished  to 
enjoy  that  frame  of  mind  in  the  most  thorough- 
ly comfortable  way  ;  so  he  took  off  his  shoes 
and  put  on  his  slippers,  stirred  the  fire  a  little, 
thrust  out  his  legs  until  his  feet  rested  on  the 
fender,  and  then  became  luxuriously  wretched. 
He  understood  this  form  of  reverie  thorough- 
ly, although  occasionally  his  thoughts  diverged 
from  it,  just  as  irrelevant  ideas  are  said  to 
strike  men  who  are  going  to  be  hung.  He 
leaned    the    finger-tips   of  one    hand  against 


1 82  JACK  O'DOON. 

the  finger-tips  of  the  other,  and  gazed  admir- 
ingly at  them. 

Then  he  abused  his  luck  and  the  coast 
of  North  Carolina,  and  wished  that  that  for- 
lorn State  had  never  been  discovered,  and 
altogether  abandoned  himself  to  feeling  as 
hateful  as  possible.  After  a  while,  a  purpose 
formed  amid  the  chaos  of  his  mind.  He  must 
find  out  the  real  claims  of  this  Jack  O'Doon, 
since  he  had  so  inconveniently  come  to  life 
again  ;  or  else,  he  reluctantly  added,  he  must 
come  to  some  clear  understanding  of  what  he 
himself  was  about,  and  not  allow  this  com- 
plication to  drive  him  mad.  His  heart  and 
mind  were  like  two  Babes  in  the  Wood — at 
one  moment  ready  to  lie  down  and  die,  at 
another,  feeding  on  crumbs  of  comfort  not 
bigger  than  berries. 

He  thought  of  Mercy  as  she  lay,  silent  and 
white,  upon  Granny  Gooch's  bed,  and  such  a 
pang  ol  remorse  smote  him  that  for  a  moment 
he  closed  his  eyes,  and,  as  he  folded  his  arms 
over  his  breast,  his  face  quivered  with  the 
longing  he  felt  for  her. 

It  was  the  first  time  his  heart  had  been 
riven  with  such  yearning  for  any  woman. 
He  knew  her  now  in  the  extremity  of  her 
weakness  :  before,  she  had  seemed  so  resolute 
to  help  herself,  so  strong  to  help  others,  that 
he  could  not  realize  the  spiritual  effort  which 
had  forced  the  body  beyond  its  powers.  But 
now,  when  the  body  had  failed,  and  the  spirit 
was  cowed  by  a  menace  from  indignant  nature, 


JACK  O'DOON.  18^ 

his  mind  put  the  query,  "What  if  Mercy 
really  had  trouble  of  the  heart,  and  some  fair 
day,  when  the  flowers  were  blooming,  and  the 
sea-waves  shimmering,  she  should  fall  ag-ain, 
and  there  should  be  no  more  Mercy  ?  "  He 
could  not  think  of  death  coming  to  her,  who 
made  gladness  for  so  many,  without  roses  and 
forget-me-nots. 

An  awful  dread  stole  over  him,  and  he  paced 
his  chamber  to  and  fro.  He  had  shut  himself 
in  to  coquet  with  jealousy,  and  a  possibility 
had  struck  him  as  even  jealousy  could  not. 


184  JACK  O'DOON. 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

HEN  Jack  and  his  mother  had  left 
Mercy  they  passed  through  the  sand- 
hills in  silence. 
Mother  Margery's  eyes  were  wept 
out  and  vacant  ;  and  Jack,  although  so  lately 
rescued  from  a  cruel  death,  hung  his  head  with 
a  blackened  brow.  Occasionally  his  eyes 
wandered  across  the  sludges  where  the  water 
seeped  and  oozed  among  the  coarse  grasses 
as  the  tide  rose. 

Both  mother  and  son  felt  that  there  was 
little  to  cheer  them. 

Jack  was  more  wretched  than  his  mother, 
because  he  was  more  conscious  of  his  misery. 

Occasionally  a  few  tears  of  compassionate 
regret  came  to  Mother  Margery's  eyes,  when 
she  remembered  that  "Old  Ned"  had  not 
been  spared  to  see  Jack  again.  She  shrank 
visibly  from  re-entering  the  cabin  whence  her 
faithful  spouse  had  been  carried  away  forever, 
but  Jack,  when  he  had  opened  the  door,  led 
her  in.  After  placing  a  chair  for  her  in  the 
chimney-corner,  he  brought  a  great  armful  of 
wood  and  piled  it  upon  the  coals. 

The  day  after  a  funeral  is   a  grim  time  and 


JACK  O' BOON.  ig^ 

seems  interminable.  We  get  so  inured  to 
ghastly  thoughts  that  every  pleasant  thing  in 
life  seems  a  mockery. 

When  a  man  suffers  acutely,  he  endures 
until  he  reaches  a  point  whence  nature  re- 
bounds and  declares  that  any  more  of  that 
sort  of  thing  is  intolerable.  Jack  just  then 
stood  in  that  regard  to  death.  The  loss  of 
his  father  had  been  a  dreadful  blow  to  him, 
but  he  had  lately  faced  such  horrors  that 
death  at  home  in  a  bed  was  not  horrible. 

His  mother  had  forgotten  him,  so  he  took 
his  sharp  knife  from  his  belt  and  amused  him- 
self with  splitting  up  a  pine  stick  to  make  the 
fire  blaze,  for  the  room  was  very  dark.  The 
narrow  window,  like  a  band  of  light  across 
the  eastern  wall,  revealed  nothing  save  the 
scurrying  clouds  without.  The  tide  had 
turned,  and  the  roar  of  the  waves  increased. 
The  wind  howled  dismally,  and  the  sand  scat- 
tered down  the  chimney. 

When  he  looked  about  the  room,  he  knew 
he  had  not  been  expected.  There  were  no 
new  books,  such  as  Mercy  habitually  left  ; 
her  forethought  and  care  having  made  it  easy, 
through  well-considered  marginal  notes,  for 
him  to  get  the  best  out  of  them.  She  had 
devised  that  means  to  help  Jack  educate 
himself,  and  make  him  intimate  with  her 
thoughts. 

Jack  was  unreasonable  in  feeling  neglected, 
for  her  very  anxiety  about  him  had  rendered 
it  impossible  for  her  to  settle  herself  to  any 


1 86  JACK  O'DOON. 

work  requiring  mental  effort  ;  but  the  recol- 
lection  of  the  stranger  made  him  uneasy. 

Having  been  saved  from  the  sea,  he  had 
come  home,  eagerly  anticipating  a  joyous 
welcome.  Instead,  he  had  stood  unnoticed 
beside  a  fast-filling  grave,  wonderstruck  at 
the  Captain's  words.  He  had  been  like  an 
apparition  among  those  whom  he  loved,  and 
even  Mercy  had  been  stricken  at  sight  of  him. 
And,  to  crown  all,  this  stranger  had  come, 
as  Jack  mistrusted,  to  loosen  the  tie  between 
her  and  himself.  All  other  sorrows  were 
dwarfed  by  this  enormity.  It  was  as  the 
parting  of  soul  from  sense. 

What  would  the  devotion  of  his  life  count 
for  against  the  fascinations  of  this  man  of 
the  world  ?  He  answered  himself  bitterly  : 
"Nothing." 

The  Captain  had  been  poor  and  earned  his 
own  bread,  but  had  lived  to  marry  a  lady. 
Why  should  not  he  ? 

Hitherto,  Jack  had  accepted  the  difference 
between  Mercy  and  himself  as  the  difference 
between  soul  and  body  ;  now,  the  soul  seemed 
breaking  from  its  bonds  of  clay,  and  the  body 
was  no  more  necessary  to  it,  but  must  fall 
again  to  the  dust  from  which  it  came.  Alas  I 
though  his  love  were  as  boundless  as  the  ocean 
and  as  fresh  as  the  sweeping  breeze,  it  could 
only  serve  to  bear  the  butterfly  floating  away 
to  the  sky. 

He  had  never  been  jealous  before.  Now 
he  was  almost  mad. 


JACK  O'DOON.  187 

"  Mother,"  said  he,  "  I  will  go  and  see  how 
the  storm  holds  ;  "  and  he  thrust  his  bright 
knite  into  its  sheath. 

Mother  Margery  arose,  and  with  difficulty 
they  shut  the  door  after  him,  and  she  put  up 
the  bar  within.  Jack,  at  last  alone  with  an 
immeasurable  despair,  strode  out  toward  the 
breakers.  The  surf  was  almost  upon  the 
sand-cliff,  and  with  a  feelmg  of  sympathy 
he  watched  the  abortive  efforts  of  the  mighty 
waves  as  they  struggled  to  lick  up  the 
bubbles  which  the  shrieking  wind  had 
whirled  into   the   seams   along  the   shore. 

He  looked  at  the  hut,  and  thought  of  Mercy 
in  the  luxury  of  her  father's  house,  and  laughed 
contemptuously  at  himself,  and  half-pitied  his 
own  heart-ache  and  presumption.  He  knew, 
better  than  any  one  else,  how  impossible  it 
was  that  his  longing  could  ever  be  fulfilled  ; 
but  all  the  same  it  was  there  in  his  breast  ; 
and  he  leaned  against  the  crumbling  cliff  as 
if  its  sands  might  help  him  to  hold  up  his 
heavy  heart.  He  did  not  heed  the  wind 
which  was  blowing  bleak  and  cold  upon  his 
open  throat,  where  the  loose  collar  of  his 
sailor-shirt  was  turned  back  from  his  hairy 
breast.  He  was  longing  to  get  out  upon  the 
sea  again.  He  felt  as  if  he  had  proven  him- 
self invulnerable  to  death  ;  but  the  touch  ol 
Mercy  in  his  arms  had  made  him  faint  in 
his  innermost  senses,  down  to  his  trembling 
knees. 

He  felt  himself  a  man,  everv  inch,  when  he 


1 88  JACK  o'Dooisr. 

was  straining  a  mainsheet  over  a  belaying- 
pin,  but  here  he  was  no  better  than  a  fool  ; 
and  from  that  sickening  sense  ot"  feebleness 
he  longed  to  escape — to  get  away — any- 
where— even  to  put  half  the  earth  between 
himself  and  this  fine  gentleman  ;  tor  Jack  was 
too  honest  to  belittle  Abercrombie. 

In  this  state  of  lonely  misery  and  desire  for 
sympathy,  he  stood  for  a  long  time,  mutely 
looking  out  upon  the  sea. 

"  Perhaps  it's  for  the  best,"  he  muttered,  as 
he  turned  away,  "  for,  after  all,  I'd  give  any- 
thing I  possessed  to  make  her  happy,  and  if 
that's  so,  I'd  better  let  her  alone  to  be  happy 
after  her  own  heart." 

Recalling  his  mother,  he  returned  to  the 
cabin  and  rattled  the  latch.  In  a  moment 
Mother  Margery  opened  the  door  for  him, 
and  they  barred  it  again  behind  him.  She, 
too,  had  come  to  herself,  and  when  he  sat 
down,  put  her  hands  affectionately  upon  his 
shoulder,  saying  : 

"  You  ain't  had  no  fittin'  welcome.  Jack, 
but  it  'pears  like  my  senses  is  gone  daft  this 
last  week."     Her  tone  was  apologetic. 

"  Dear  mother,"  he  cried,  springing  to  his 
feet  and  embracing  her,  "  don't  think  of 
me  !  "  He  took  her  in  his  arms,  and  fondly 
kissed  the  tear-withered  eyelids  and  the 
sunken  lines  which  sorrow  had  made  in  her 
cheeks. 

"  You  ain't  never  told  me  how  you  got 
back,"  said  she,  sitting  down  again,  "  but  I'm 


JACK  O' DOOM.  i8q 

jes'  that  helpless,  seems  like  I  ain't  got  the 
courage  to  listen." 

"  We  won't  talk  about  it  at  all,"  said  Jack, 
"  for  it  wa'n't  so  bad  but  it  might  ha'  been 
worse,  so  just  don't  pester  yerself."  When 
Jc-ck  talked  with  his  mother  or  the  sailor  folk, 
he  lapsed  easily  into  their  parlance  ;  but  when 
he  spoke  with  Mercy,  his  respect  for  her,  and 
the  influence  of  her  example,  made  him  en- 
deavor to  respond  to  her  in  good  English. 

Seeing  that  his  mother  was  listening,  he 
continued  :  '•  I've  heard  the  newspaper  stories 
about  never  seein'  us  again,  and  they  were 
likely  enough,  for  after  we'd  cut  away  the 
ropin'  and  yards,  and  flung  off  the  topmast  to 
right  ship,  though  it  didn't  help  her,  and  sent 
the  masts  after  'em,  she  kept  on  gettin'  worse, 
seein'  as  we  had  such  a  slippery  cargo  aboard. 
We'd  pretty  much  given  up  all  hope,  till  just 
as  night  was  comin'  on,  we  struck  a  current, 
and  drifted  ;  the  Lord  knows  where  we  were 
driftin'  to.  The  waves  were  rollin'  like  cliffs 
and  tumblin'  down  on  the  deck,  and  the  cold 
was  awful  !  The  fo'c'sle  got  beat  in,  and  the 
bulkheads  filled  with  water,  and  there  didn't 
seem  a  livin'  chance  ! 

"  Jim  Simmons  got  licked  off 'n  the  poop, 
right  before  our  eyes,  and  none  of  us  ever 
saw  him  again. 

"  Oh,  ye  ain't  got  a  notion  o'  what  it  was 
like  ;  and  I  ain't  able  to  tell  you. 

"  And  then  we  set  to  workin'  the  pumps, 
and  we  worked  till  we  w^ere  worn  out ;  and  it 


I  go  JACK  O'DOON. 

seemed  as  if  our  hands  would   freeze  to  the 
pump-handles,  it  was  that  cold  ! 

"  And  the  fires  got  put  clean  out  !  Just 
soaked.  The  stoves  full  o'  water  !  So  we 
didn't  have  any  place  to  warm,  and  we  dasn't 
walk  a  step  to  keep  from  freezin',  for  the  deck 
was  covered  with  ice,  and  as  slippery  as  glass, 
and  slopin'  like  a  house-roof.  There  wasn't 
a  thing  standin'  up  straight,  'ceptin'  o'  them 
things  as  ought  to  been  crank-sided  ! 

"  The  wind  was  drivin'  the  sleet  in  outr 
faces,  till  they  were  bleedin'  awful.  I  'most 
hate  to  talk  about  it." 

Jack  looked  into  the  fire  and  remained 
silent. 

"  Go  on,"  said  Mother  Margery,  who,  by  a 
singular  process  of  emotion,  found  the  stir- 
ring recital  of  such  active  dangers  a  relief 
from  her  memories  of  the  numb  apathy  in 
which  her  husband  had  died. 

"  Well,"  resumed  Jack  '<  toward  morning, 
the  wind  sort  o'  veered  off  and  the  stars 
came  out,  a  few  at  a  time.  The  sun  rose  clear, 
and  the  sea  was  the  most  beautiful  sight  I 
ever  saw  !  Somehow,  whenever  I'd  thought 
about  shipwrecks,  I  pictured  the  ships  gettin' 
crushed  down  into  the  sea  in  the  dark,  and 
the  waves  splittin'  over  'em  like  those  outside. 
May  the  Lord  help  any  poor  dog  on  the  sea 
this  night  !  "  said  Jack,  suddenly  pausing  to 
listen,  and  shuddering  as  a  blast  of  sand 
came  rattling  down  the  chimney. 

After  awhile  he  continued:   "  But   the  sun 


JACK  O'DOOK.  igt 

was  that  bright  it  was  blindin',  and  the  water 
was  foamin'  and  shinin'  like  quicksilver,  and 
beatin'  over  us,  glad  and  mad  both. 

"There  was  hardly  a  chance  to  get  a 
mouthful  to  eat,  albeit  there  was  plenty 
.iboard.  Biscuits  and  junk,  and  the  hold 
nigh  to  bustin'  with  fish  ! 

'•  But  we  dasn't  open  the  main-hatch,  for 
one  of  them  big  waves  would  have  foundered 
us  alive  ;  and  so  we  just  made  a  shift  o' 
eatin'  biscuits,  a  carryin'  'em  round  in  our 
pockets. 

"  Well,  we  had  better  weather,  and  drifted 
south-southeast  all  the  next  day,  as  near  as 
we  could  tell,  for  the  compass  was  stove  in, 
and  we  pitched  about  so  we  couldn't  calculate 
much  by  the  sun,  but  nigh  on  to  eight  bells 
the  sea  went  down,  and  we  set  to  work  to 
straighten  her  out  a  bit,  seein'  as  we  might 
keep  on  floatin'  till  we  came  across  some  sort 
o'  craft.  It  got  warmer,  too,  as  the  wind 
slacked,  and  we  emptied  the  stoves  and 
managed  to  get  a  fire  a-goin'. 

"  But  we'd  lost  our  tiller,  we  didn't  have 
any  canvas,  nothin'  in  God's  world  to  rig  her 
with,  and  when  night  came  on,  and  it  got 
gloomy  and  lonesome,  Joe  Hawkins  started 
to  talk  about  jumpin'  overboard,  to  keep  from 
dyin'  some  worse  way.  But  we  all  reasoned 
with  him,  and  the  skipper  'lowed  to  tie  him, 
and  1  reckon  maybe  now  he's  glad  he  held 
on. 

"  We  were  just  like  a  floatin'  island,  slap- 


IQ2  JACK  O'DOON. 

pin'  around  with  the  wind  blowin'  us  some- 
where, though  the  Lord  only  knowed  where  ! 
But  she's  a  tough  old  hull,  and  I'll  stand  by 
her,  if  ever  she  puts  to  sea  again  !  " 

His  mother  shook  her  head. 

«'  But  one  day,  seems  like  it  was  Friday, 
we  hove  in  sight  o'  one  o'  them  ocean 
steamers  runnin'  between  Savannah  and  New 
York. 

"  Our  old  skipper  hoisted  our  signal,  and  it 
appeared  at  first  that  they  didn't  want  to 
notice  us,  but  after  awhile  they  run  closer, 
and  when  they  came  up  and  took  us  aboard 
were  for  scuttlin'  our  old  bark,  but  the 
Captain  and  me,  I  bein'  mate,  recommended 
to  tow  her  in,  for  she  had  an  uncommon 
tough  hull,  that  brig  o'  our'n,"  said  Jack, 
dropping  his  voice  affectionately,  "  for  if  she 
hadn't  had,  I  wouldn't  be  here,  that's  sure  ! 

«i  We  got  into  New  York  yesterday,  and 
here  I  be  to-day  ! 

«« There  were  lots  o'  passengers,  and  the 
ladies  made  a  great  fuss  over  us.  One  of 'em, 
a  pretty  young  one,  gave  me  this.  Took  it 
out  of  a  hand-bag,  and  gave  it  to  me." 

Jack  drew  from  his  pocket  a  silver  flask. 

"  I  reckon  she  was  sorry  for  me,"  he  said, 
as  he  handed  the  pretty  trifle  to  his  mother. 

"  I  wouldn't  mind  much  havin'  a  good  hot 
grog,  right  now,"  he  added. 

"  Ye  ain't  had  no  dinner,  is  ye?"  Mother 
Margery  inquired. 

••  No,  nor  breakfast  neither,  nor  supper  last 


JACK  O'DOOM.  jg^ 

night !  "  Jack  replied,  with  a  sigh  at  remember- 
ing his  impatience.  "  I  ain't  thought  about 
eatin'.  I  was  so  took  up  with  thinkin'  about 
gettin'  home.  Don't  ye  disturb  yerself.  I 
ain't  a  sailor  if  I  can't  cook." 

So  saying  he  filled  the  iron  pot  with  water, 
hung  it  on  the  crane,  and  swung  it  over  the  fire. 

"  There's  victuals  like  ez  not  in  the  cupboard, 
my  son,"  said  Mother  Margery,  pointing  to 
the  corner. 

It  was  too  dark  to  see  distinctly,  and  Jack 
picked  up  a  fire-brand  to  light  his  movements. 

"  Will  ye  eat  a  ship's  pie,  mother,  if  I 
make  it  ?  "  he  inquired,  collecting  the  ingre- 
dients. 

"  I  ain't  got  no  heart  to  eat,  John,"  she  re- 
plied ;  "  'pears  like  this  ole  cabin  ain't  nothin' 
but  a  big  coffin,  and  I  must  git  away  !  " 

Jack  glanced  around  the  quaint  place. 
"  'Tam't  long  since  I  thought  that  same  thing, 
mother  ;  but  it  kind  o'  hurts  me  when  I  hear 
you  say  it.  Like  as  not,  we  won't  either  of 
us  spend  as  happy  days  anywhere  else  as 
we've  seen  and  done  with,  here." 

Before  Mother  Margery  could  answer,  some 
one  rattled  the  latch,  and  Jack  opened  the 
door  to  admit  a  dishevelled  child. 

"  Lord  ha'  mercy,  chile  1 "  cried  Mother  Mar- 
gery, bringing  the  new-comer  to  the  fire,  "  an' 
what  be  you  here  fur  ?  " 

"  Mammy  sent  me  ter  ax'  Jack  whar  were 
Grand-daddy  Pete.  She 'lowed  to  ha' come  her 
own  self,  but  the  baby's  that  bad  she  couldn't 

13 


IQ4  JACK  O'DOOK. 

fetch  it,  en'  I  ain't  big  enough  to  stay  at  home 
long  o   It. 

"And  so  she  sent  you  over  the  beach,  when 
the  tide's  in,  and  the  quicksands  are  rottener 
than  common  !  "  exclaimed  Jack. 

"  I  ain't  afeared  o'  nothin'  !  "  replied  the 
child  with  assurance,  brushing  aside  the  lank 
strings  of  wet  hair  which  fell  over  her  face. 

•«  Your  old  drunken  grand-daddy  ain't  worth 
such  a  risk  ! "  answered  Jack,  disgusted. 
«'  Sit  down  and  v/ait  a  bit,  and  I'll  go  back 
with  ye  a  piece  as  soon  as  the  kettle  boils. 
Just  tell  your  ma  he's  safer  than  he  ought  to 
be,  for  he  ain't  any  account.  Your  grand- 
daddy  was  along  with  us  when  we  were  taken 
up  by  a  fine  big  ship,  a  steamship,  chock-full 
o'  passengers,  and  they  made  no  end  o'  fuss 
over  us.  The  Captain  treated  us  fine  !  He 
asked  our  old  skipper  and  me,  seein'  as  I  was 
mate,  to  eat  at  the  Captain's  table,  and  they 
gave  us  no  end  o'  good  eatin'.  Your  old 
grand-daddy  was  in  the  bulkhead,  and  the 
very  first  thing  he  did  was  to  get  drunk.  I 
wish  yer  ma  would  let  old  Pete  slide.  It's  a 
shame  for  her  to  waste  money  on  him,  that 
ought  to  be  spent  on  you  little  ones. 

"  All  the  folks  aboard  made  up  a  purse  for 
our  men.  The  skipper  and  me  declined,  but 
the  strange  Captain  said  a  speech  and  gave  it 
equal  around  to  the  others  ;  and  the  very  first 
thing  old  Pete  did,  when  he  got  to  New  York, 
was  to  fetch  up  at  a  dram-shop,  and  spread 
himself  abeam,  dead  drunk. 


JACK  O'DOON.  IQ^ 

"  There  he's  stranded,  and  like  to  stay,  as 
long  as  he's  got  a  nickel,  and  I  ain't  certain 
when  yer  ma'll  see  him  ;  not  before  he's 
starved  out,  I  reckon." 

The  child  grinned  as  if  it  were  a  normal 
and  satisfactory  report. 

"  'Tain't  anything  to  laugh  at,  child  !  "  said 
Jack,  "  there  ain't  any  belayin'-pin  for  ole 
Pete  like  a  silver  dollar  before  a  dram-shop 
door  !  " 

"  All  the  folkses  down  to  Hope  Shingle  axes 
ye  to  come  down,  en'  yarn  'em  awhile,"  said 
the  little  girl  after  a  pause,  looking  at  Jack 
with  unutterable  admiration. 

The  young  sailor  was  open  to  flattery,  even 
from  a  dirty  child. 

"  Tell  'em,  when  you  get  home,  that  I'll  try 
and  go  to-morrow.  I  haven't  had  anything  to 
eat  to-day  ;  I've  been  in  such  a  mighty  on- 
rest." 

The  child,  at  this  information,  looked  hun- 
grily at  the  beef  and  pork  Jack  was  mincing 
on  the  table,  and  wonderingly  at  Jack. 

"  You  must  be  pretty  nigh  starved,  child," 
said  he,  looking  at  the  little  girl  thoughtfully, 
"  Just  keep  on  sittin'  there,  and  I'll  pretty 
soon  give  yea  taste  o'  boilin'-hot  ship-pie  with 
inguns  in  it  I  I  reckon  ye  likes  that  sort,  don't 
ye,  honey  ?  "  He  said  this  while  scraping  to- 
gether the  minced  meat  and  cutting  an  onion 
into  it,  after  he  had  set  the  spider  on  the  tire, 
to  get  hot. 

"  You  didn't  know  I  could   cook,   did  ye  ?  " 


iq5  jack  o' boon. 

he  asked,  endeavoring  to  beguile  the  time  for 
her.  "  Ye  ain't  got  an  idea  o'  half  what  I  can 
do  I  Jest  you  watch  me  now.  Make  a  good 
fat  short-cake,  just  so  ;  put  it  in  the  spider  ; 
an*  when  it's  done  cookin*,  just  split  it  open, 
and  fill  it  cram'  full  o'  hash,  and  then  put  it 
back  in  the  spider,  and  brown  it  nice  with 
gravy.     Will  you  tell  me  I  can't  cook  ?  " 

The  child  watched  the  operation  with  an 
interest  more  vital  than  curiosity,  and  prompt- 
ly accepted  an  invitation  to  sit  down  with  him 
at  a  table,  upon  which  he  had  spread  a  white 
cloth,  and  soon  afterwards  placed  two  heaping 
plates  of  hot  pie. 

Mother  Margery  declined  to  participate,  and 
so  Jack  made  her  a  cup  of  tea,  and  then  mixed 
a  mugful  of  hot  grog  for  himself. 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  o'  folk's  eyes  bein' 
bigger  than  their  stomicks  ?  Well  that's 
what  they  say  when  little  gals  like  you  look 
as  if  they  wanted  to  eat  all  they  sees  on  the 
table,  and  their  stomicks  ain't  big  enough  to 
hold  half.  So  here's  luck  to  ye  !  "  said  Jack, 
drinking  his  grog,  "but  if  ye  eat  so  fast,  ye'U 
choke." 

The  child  devoured  her  pie  in  hot  haste, 
pausing  at  intervals  to  bestow  a  look  of  won- 
dering admiration  upon  Jack. 

"  This  ain't  a  real  proper  sea-pie,"  said  he 
after  a  while,  with  his  mouth  full — but  the 
child  took  no  exception  to  that  breach  of  good 
manners  ;  "  because,  in  a  proper  sea-pie,  you 
must  keep  on  pilin'  up  short  cakes,  and  differ- 


JACK  O' BOON.  igy 

ent  sorts  o*  meat,  till  ye  get  three  or  four 
decks  of  'em  ;  but  this  little  single-decker,  I 
reckon,  is  big  enough  for  you  and  me.  Look 
at  this  here,  ain't  it  a  pretty  ?  '•' — producing,  as 
he  spoke,  the  silver  flask  from  his  pocket.  "  A 
tine  young  lady  give  me  that,  on  the  big  steam- 
ship. I  guess  you  ain't  never  seen  anything 
like  that  before." 

The  child  handled  it  gingerly  with  a  mute 
smile  upon  her  face,  but  after  a  moment's  re- 
flection she  asked  :  "  Were  she  finer  than  our 
Mercy  ?  " 

"  No,  honey,  there  ain't  anybody  finer  than 
our  Mercy,"  replied  Jack,  looking  caressingly 
upon  the  child,  who  had  unwillmgly  uttered 
the  thought  nearest  his  own  heart. 

"Come,  warm  up  yer  toes  now,  quick  as 
ever  ye  can,"  said  he,  sitting  down  on  a  chair 
before  the  fire,  and  taking  her  on  his  knee  ; 
"  case  if  ye  ain't  a-gettin'  home  pretty  quick, 
it'll  be  night,  and  yer  mother'!!  be  thatskeered 
about  you,  she'll  cry,  that  she  will  1  " 

Mother  Margery  was  surprised  to  see  Jack's 
interest  in  the  little  girl,  although  it  never  had 
surprised  her  when,  since  he  was  a  little  boy 
of  seven,  and  Mercy  a  baby  of  one  year,  he 
had  devoted  himself  with  indefatigable  interest 
and  ingenuity  to  pleasing  her.  "Well,  come 
on  now,"  said  he  to  the  child  ;  "  we'll  try  it 
over  the  sands.  Your  little  toes  ain't  snug  as 
they  might  be,  so  I  guess  I'll  tote  you  some  o' 
the  way." 

They   opened   and  closed    the  door   again, 


iq8  jack  O'DOON. 

Jack  holding  it  from  without  while  his  mother 
barred  it  within,  and  then  he  took  up  the  little 
maid  in  his  arms,  and  strode  away  with  her, 
moving  in  the  direction  opposite  to  the  village. 

The  surf  was  heavy  and  bold,  and  reached 
far  into  the  land  ;  indeed,  in  one  place,  Jack  had 
to  be  alert  to  escape  a  breaker  ;  but  he  carried 
the  child  safely  to  within  sight  of  her  home, 
where  the  beach  was  wide  and  sound. 

"  Now,  get  along  with  you,"  said  he,  good- 
humoredly,  standing  her  on  her  feet,  and 
watching  her  safely  started  ere  he  turned  to 
retrace  his  steps,  looking  back  from  time  to 
time  to  see  if  she  were  getting  on  all  right. 

Jack  was  devoted  to  children,  and  they  clung 
to  him. 

Before  he  returned  to  his  mother's  cabin 
he  took  the  path  to  Blessington  House,  and  at 
the  mess-room  door  stopped  and  looked  in. 
"  How's  Mercy  got  ?  "  said  he,  refusing  the 
chair  which  Bill  Junk  offered  him.. 

"  She's  freshin'  up  a  reef,"  replied  Bill,  lay- 
ing down  his  pipe  and  urging  Jack  to  sit  down 
and  tell  the  news. 

"  What's  she  doin'  "i  "  inquired  Jack,  ignor- 
ing the  other's  curiosity,  and  anxious,  yet 
afraid,  to  hear  the  reply. 

"  She's  a  settin'  by  the  fire  in  the  Capting's 
ole  room,  what  she  an'  the  young  man's  a-fixed 
up  fur  a  paintin'  room — stoody,  I  b'lieve  they 
calls  it." 

Jack's  heart  sank,  but  he  ventured  one  more 
query.     "  Is  she  by  herself  ?  " 


JACK  O'DOO.V.  inn 

"  No,  indeed,  man  ;  she's  a-talkin'  to  the 
young  gentleman,"  said  Bill. 

"  But  ef  she  know'd  you  was  here  she'd  be 
a-axin'  you  to  come  up.  Jack,"  said  Splugen, 
who  was  Jack's  staunch  ally. 

"  Well,  I  ain't  got  a  mind  to  interrupt  'em," 
said  Jack  sadly  ;  "  but,  Tony,  I'd  be  mor'n  ob- 
leeged  to  ye  ef  ye'd  fetch  me  some  sort  o'  book 
to  read,"  he  added,  apologetically. 

"  Here,  take  this  here,"  said  Bill,  handing  him 
the  last  "Century,"  "  take  it  along.  We's  done 
with  it  !  " 

"  Give  my  love  to  Mercy,"  said  Jack,  turn- 
ing rather  dejectedly  towards  the  door.  "  Tell 
her  I  just  came  by  to  see  ef  she  were  mendin', 
an'  good-bye  to  ye  all.  I'll  step  in  again  to- 
morrow, mor'n  like." 

"  There's  a  storm  a-brewin',  sure,"  said 
Bill,  when  the  door  was  closed. 

"  There  ain't  no  better  fellow  than  Jack  de- 
servin'  to  skip  a  brig,"  said  Splugen,  watch- 
ing him  from  the  window  as  he  passed  out  of 
the  old  oak  gate. 

Poor  Jack,  he  would  have  done  better  to 
have  spared  himself  that  thrust  !  But  whom 
had  he  ever  sought  with  the  trust  he  felt  in 
Mercy  ?  When  had  he  come  home  before, 
and  not  gone,  as  soon  as  he  had  seen  his 
mother,  to  spend  an  hour  with  her  in  the 
friendliest  confidence  ? 

This  afternoon  he  could  not  face  the  other 
man,  and  his  heart  was  heavy  as  he  turned 
away ;    shrinking  from  the    contrast   between 


2  00  JACK  O'DOON. 

himseli  and  Abercrombie,  who  was  so  elegant 
and  altogether  just  what  Jack  knew  that  he 
himself  was  not. 

Jack  came  and  went  so  noiselessly  that 
Mercy  had  not  heard  him  as  she  reclined  in 
her  father's  chair  before  the  fire,  her  feet 
covered  with  silk  stockings  and  thrust  into 
slippers  lined  with  fur. 

She  had  never  before  seemed  so  softly  femi- 
nine to  Abercrombie,  her  pink  gown  billowed 
with  lace  reflecting  a  tender  glow  upon  her  face. 

The  Captain  was  asleep  on  a  lounge  beside 
the  chimney,  leaving  Algie  and  Mercy  to  en- 
tertain each  other. 

Presently  she  roused  herself  and  began  talk- 
ing gleefully.  Jack's  return  had  lifted  such  a 
weight  from  her  heart. 

A  golden  contrast  to  Jack  himself,  who  had 
met  nothing  but  disappointment  at  every  turn, 
until,  looking  back  at  the  Jack  who  had  left 
New  York  the  morning  before  so  full  of  hope, 
he  could  almost  have  wept  for  him  as  for  a 
stranger. 

He  stood  irresolute  when  he  had  closed  the 
gate  behind  him,  and  pressed  his  hand  to  his 
eyes  to  blur  the  tears  which  he  scorned  to 
shed.  But  he  could  not  repress  the  heaving 
of  his  breast  nor  the  shudder  that  shook  his 
frame. 

Till  now  he  had  been  content  with  things 
as  they  were,  believing  that  if  he  did  his  best 
something  would  come  to  his  aid  before  it  was 
too  late. 


JACK  O^DOON.  20 1 

He  suddenly  flung  out  his  arms  and  clasped 
them  behind  his  neck,  and  looked  up  to  God 
inquiringly — then  wished  he  were  dead,  and  a 
cruel  temptation  came  to  him. 

Looking  at  the  sea,  he  pondered,  knowing 
there  was  a  certainty  of  escape.  The  night 
was  clo7,ing  in  ;  the  water  was  boiling  and 
black  ;  but  a  holy  and  generous  thought 
rescued  him  in  his  temptation. 

A  tender  smile  overspread  his  face. 

"  Perhaps  I  have  been  spared  to  help  Mer- 
cy," he  said  to  himself.  "  Who  knows  how 
soon  the  hour  may  come  when  she  will  need 
some  one  who  loves  her  to  help  her,  and  I 
will  be  that  one,  even  though  she  does  not 
love  me  now,  and  cannot  love  me  then." 

Jack's  great  sympathy  with  the  sea  enabled 
him  to  find  relief  for  his  own  emotion  in  its 
turbulence,  and  as  he  gazed  upon  it  his  heart 
found  the  peace  of  passive  endurance. 

Jack's  was  a  chivalrous  heart,  and  his  out- 
w^ard  roughness  did  not  prove  him  less  noble 
than  many  a  knight  who,  in  olden  times, 
buckled  his  lady's  sleeve  in  his  helmet  and 
fought  for  love  and  died. 

In  his  expanding  eyes  there  was  the  power 
of  a  heathen  god's,  and  when  he  was  angry, 
men  let  him  alone  ;  for  it  was  a  power  of 
authority,  and  his  eyes  glowed  until  all  else 
was  lost  to  sight,  even  the  lion-like  strength  of 
his  shoulders. 

Thought  of  one  woman  only  could  soften 
them,   and    bring  a  veil  ov'er   them    as   now. 


2  02  JACK  O'DOON. 

when   he    felt   that    he   could  not   endure  the 
fainting  confidence  within. 

As  he  neared  his  mother's  cabin,  Jack  ob- 
served that  no  smoke  issued  from  the  hole  in 
the  sand-hill.  She  had  let  the  fire  go  out,  and 
his  conscience  smote  him  that  he  had  for- 
gotten her. 

The  cabin  was  utterly  black  within.  Mother 
Margery  sat  moping  beside  the  hearth.  He 
could  scarcely  find  her.  When  he  had  re- 
kindled the  fire,  he  went  to  a  place  in  the  wall, 
removed  the  canvas  hanging,  and  opened  a 
door  behind  it,  disclosing  a  smaller  cabin 
with  a  single  bunk  and  locker.  On  a  shelf  at 
the  head  of  the  berth  stood  a  good  lamp. 

"  How  is  it,  mother,"  said  he,  returning  with 
it  to  the  table,  "  that  you  never  will  use  my 
lamp  when  I  am  gone  ?  " 

"  I  am  used  to  the  firelight,  John,"  said  she. 
"  When  a  body  works  from  early  mornin' 
through  a  long  day,  they  are  glad  to  rest  vvhen 
the  sun  sets,  an'  I  can  rest  better  in  the  dark. 
I  ain't  no  scholar,  my  son,  as  ye  well  knows," 
she  added  sadly.  Mother  Margery's  speech, 
innocent  of  grammar,  had  a  pathos  in  it  to 
the  ears  of  poor  Jack,  which  made  him  careful 
of  assuming  anything  better  to  her,  lest  he 
should  sound  fine.  At  sea,  too,  his  men  best 
understood  the  vernacular  to  which  they  were 
accustomed,  and  so  Jack  kept  up  the  two 
forms  of  speech,  as  if  they  were  two  languages  ; 
like  work-a-day  and  holiday  clothes,  to  be  put 
on,    or   laid    by    as    occasion    might    require. 


JACK  O'DOON.  203 

When  he  wrote,  his  diction  was  good  ;  so 
that  seeing  Jack  in  his  mother's  hut,  speaking 
the  dialect  of  the  fisher-folk,  acknowledging 
his  birthright  among  them,  we  see  him  at  his 
worst  ;  but  that  worst  was  none  the  less 
noble  because  it  was  a  voluntary  sacrifice  to 
the  pride  of  others. 

Jack,  like  all  other  men,  was  perforce  ot 
two  natures  ;  although  the  refined  inner  one 
seldom  saw  the  light. 

He  despised  the  thought  of  setting  up  to  be 
finer  than  the  old  sailor  his  father.  Only 
Mercy  knew  both  natures  well,  and  it  was  the 
secret  self  which  was  suffocated  to-night  for 
want  of  her.  But  all  the  same,  he  sat  down 
beside  the  light  and  looked  at  the  pictures  in 
his  book,  although  at  times  his  eyes  were 
blank  of  sight.  He  had  so  much  to  tell  Mercy, 
and  was  so  disappointed  not  to  have  seen 
her. 

He  missed  his  father's  occasional  groan 
from  the  chimney-corner.  His  mother  had 
generally  been  silent — now  she  was  hoarse 
with  weeping,  and  the  moan  from  time  to 
time,  with  which  she  changed  her  position, 
wrung  his  heart.  It  seemed  as  if  he  could  not 
possibly  endure  anything  more.  He  closed 
the  book  and  looked  into  the  blaze,  and  list- 
ened to  the  wind  shrieking  outside,  and 
watched  the  sporadic  flames  pop  up  between 
the  logs. 

It  was  not  yet  eight  o'clock.  The  gloom 
was  utterly  lifeless.     He  was  terribly  weary. 


204  JACK  O'DOON. 

but   the  night  was   so  long,   and   he  disliked 

leaving  his  mother  to  spend  it  alone. 
"  Mother,  won't  you  eat  something  ?  " 
"  No,  boy,  I  ain't  got  no  taste  for  nothin*." 
Another  gloomy  silence,  until  Jack  thought 

he  should  go  mad. 

At  last,   casting  her  eyes   upon  him   for  a 

moment,    she    saw   that    he    was   weary,    and 

urged  him  to  go  to  rest. 

With    some    reluctance    he    exchanged    the 

fireside  for  his  bed,  and  fell  into   a   death-like 

sleep.     Thus  ended  \\\zX  dreadful  day. 


JACK  O'DOON,  205 


CHAPTER  XV. 


^<^^^3 


F  surcease  of  suffering  be  happiness, 
lulled  by  "  Nature's  soft  nurse," 
Jack  had  been  happy,  and  sunshine 
streamed  through  a  chink  in  the  roof 
ere  he  awoke  and  made  ready  to  take  up  the 
burden  of  another  day. 

Outside,  wreaths  of  pink  clouds  half  en- 
circled the  ascending  sun,  and  the  gray  sil- 
houette of  a  ship  was  passing  across  the  disk. 
Sunshine  gladdens  the  soul,  and  Jack,  whose 
heart  was  ready  for  beneficent  influences,  felt 
a  kind  of  joy  in  the  brightness  of  the  morning, 
as  he  wandered,  gathering  here  and  there  the 
debris  cast  ashore  by  the  storm.  The  water- 
soaked  fragments  had  a  different  meaning  to 
him  now,  and  he  wondered  if  any  of  the 
splinters  he  held  had  fallen  from  his  own  hand 
and  been  cast  from  the  "  Marianetta." 

He  bestirred  himself  to  relieve  his  mother 
of  her  work  ;  for  even  Granny  Gooch  could 
not  deny  that  he  was  a  good  son. 

The  April  morning  was  seductively  penitent, 
after  the  raging  night,  and  mother  and  son 
sat  down  to  breakfast  with  the  cabin  door 
open,    and  the  bright  light   streaming  in, — a 


2o6  JACK  O'DOO.V. 

noble  picture  against  the  background  of  sail- 
cloth. Their  faces  contrasted  strangely.  Jack's 
was  eloquent  with  strength  of  purpose,  brilliant 
in  coloring,  and  vivid  with  the  ardor  of  youth. 
His  eyes,  of  a  deep  brown,  were  set  beneath 
jet-black  brows,  which  met  together  ;  and  his 
hair  and  close-cut  beard  were  tinged  with 
chestnut  in  the  lights,  and  umber  in  the 
shadows. 

Mother  Margery  was  stately  and  silent,  and 
her  face,  colorless  and  careworn,  was  sombre 
with  grief. 

The  copper  kettle  hissed  audaciously  in 
their  faces,  its  bloated  form  red  and  shining. 
Jack  made  tea  for  his  mother,  their  breakfast 
consisting  of  fish  and  brown  bread,  served  on 
pewter  platters.  The  world  did  not  seem 
such  a  bad  place  as  it  had  appeared  the  night 
before. 

Most  unexpectedly,  Mercy  appeared  at  the 
door.  Jack  welcomed  her  eagerly,  and  poured 
out  a  cup  of  tea  for  her,  while  Mother  Mar- 
gery laid  a  plate  upon  the  table. 

"  I  can  only  stop  for  the  tea,  thank  you," 
said  she  ;  "I  have  stolen  away  from  home, 
and  father  must  not  miss  me.  But  I  did  so 
want  to  see  you,  Jack." 

She  spoke  frankly,  and  with  such  earnest 
affection  that  it  augured  poorly  for  Jack's 
hopes  of  love. 

"  Splugen  told  me  you  were  at  the  house 
yesterday  evening,  and  I  think  it  was  so  mean 
of  you  not  to  come  upstairs  and  see  me,"  she 


JACK  O'DOON.  207 

said,  while  Jack,  leaning  with   his  elbows  on 
the  table,  watched  her  sipping  her  tea. 

"I  thought  you  had  better  company,"  he 
replied,  bashfully. 

Mercy  looked  at  him  with  troubled  inquiry 
in  her  eyes,  and  then  blushed  crimson,  but  re- 
covered herself  sufficiently  to  stammer  :  "  A 
fair  exchange  is  no  robbery." 

Mother  Margery  looked  with  curious  inter- 
est from  one  to  the  other. 

"  I  came  to  hear  about  the  shipwreck,  Jack," 
said  Mercy,  after  a  long  pause.  "  If  Mother 
Margery  has  heard  it,  let's  go  and  sit  upon  the 
old  keel,  and  you  tell  me  everything  ;  I'm  not 
at  all  hungr)'." 

Jack  complied,  and  she  sat  watching  the 
shimmering  sea  while  he  told  her  the  story 
he  had  told  his  mother. 

As  he  finished,  Mercy  wiped  her  eyes,  and 
then  both  were  silent  while  they  watched  the 
distant  sails  as  they  passed  and  vanished  like 
phantoms  along  the  misty  line  which  lies  be- 
tween the  ocean  and  the  sky. 

After  a  while  Jack  said  :  "  But  all  the  time, 
Mercy,  I  was  thinking  of  you,  and  it  seemed 
to  me  that  if  I  could  hold  on  to  life  long  enough 
to  see  your  dear  face  again,  I  could  go  better 
satisfied  into  the  other  world  and  wait  until  I 
should  find  you  there.  If  I  had  never  known 
you,  I  could  not  have  endured  the  suffering  it 
cost  to  get  home  ;  and  perhaps  none  of  us 
would  have  been  alive  this  morning  ;  for  there 
were  so  few — only  nine  all  told — that  if  one  had 


2o8  JACK  O' BOON. 

failed,  the  others  could  not  have  held  out. 
Hour  by  hour,  life  did  not  seem  worth  the  liv- 
ing ;  and  now  that  I  am  with  you  again,  dear 
Mercy,  I  feel  as  if  I  never  wanted  to  take  my 
eyes  off  your  face." 

"Jack,"  said  Mercy,  earnestly,  "you  blind 
yourself  to  all  but  the  best  in  me." 

"  No,  that's  not  so,"  said  Jack  with  assur^ 
ance.  "  I  never  talked  like  this  to  you  before, 
because  until  I  felt  that  all  the  world  was 
being  taken  away,  I  did  not  realize  the  value 
\  put  upon  the  things  in  the  world.  But  that 
awful  night  was  a  '  Last  Judgment '  to  each 
of  us,  and  I  knew  then  that  whatever  you 
might  feel  for  me,  I  loved  you  more  than  any- 
thing. I  know  just  what  big  notions  your 
father  and  your  Aunt  Polly  have  got  for  you, 
but  my  strength  is  yours,  Mercy  ;  the  strength 
of  my  heart  and  of  my  soul,  and  you  have  only 
to  ask  for  it.  You  are  my  bright  star,  far 
away  out  of  reach,  but  I  never  mean  to  look 
lower." 

Mercy's  eyes  rested  on  Jack's  face  with  a 
pathetic  smile,  although  tears  were  very  near 
her  lashes.  He  was  so  close  and  dear ;  but 
she  was  too  like  him  to  love  him. 

But  Jack  held  his  world  in  his  gaze  as  his 
glowing  eyes  rested  on  her  face.  Mercy, 
looking  up,  encountered  their  intense  passion. 

"  Do  not  go  home  that  way,"  said  Jack, 
moving  after  her  as  she  turned  from  him. 
"  I'm  so  afraid  of  the  quicksands  ;  if  a  drift  is 
cast  on  them  one  day,  the  next  it  is  gone.     It 


J  A  CK  o'doon:  209 

seems  to  me  that  the  vein  is  getting  wider  and 
rottener  than  it  used  to  be." 

"I  have  a  terror  of  it  too,"  said  she.  "It 
would  be  such  a  frightful  thing  to  be  buried 
alive  that  way." 

"I  can't  bear  the  thought,"  said  he,  "it 
makes  my  flesh  creep  !  Don't  ever  go  by  the 
North  Beach.  It  terrifies  me  to  think  of  any 
danger  befalling  you,  or  any  other  sort  of 
trouble,  Mercy.  But,  if  anything  should  hap- 
pen, you  would  come  to  me,  wouldn't  you  ? 
You  know,  I  know  what  intensest  suffering  is, 
and  oh,  believe  me  when  I  say  I  would  do  any- 
thing, even  die  for  you  I  " 

He  grasped  her  arms  and  held  her  for  a 
moment,  looking  at  her,  and  his  eyes  seemed 
to  penetrate  the  secret  of  her  heart.  Mercy 
could  not  withstand  the  fascmation  of  them, 
as  he  slowly  added  : 

"  I  have  begun  to  think  I  could  even  give  up 
my  life  to  save  the  life  of  another  man,  if  I  be- 
lieved that  you  loved  him,  and  that  such  an 
exchange  could  make  you  happy." 

Such  words  might  have  seemed  idle  vaunt- 
ing in  another,  but  in  Jack's  life  he  had  never 
promised  aught  which  he  had  not  fulfilled. 
He  waited  to  see  if  she  understood  him,  and 
then  released  her,  and  they  walked  along  the 
path  to  her  father's  house.  Suddenly  he 
stopped  again,  and,  standing  in  front  of  her, 
blocked  the  way. 

"  Will  you  promise  me  that  you  will  come 
to  me  for  help  if  I  can  give  it  'i  You  always 
14 


2IO  JACK  O'DOON. 

have  laughed  at  my  superstitions,  but  lately 
a  pink  curlew  was  shot  and  fell  at  my  feet. 
That's  a  rare  bird  for  this  time  o'  year,  and 
my  favorite  bird,  too,  and  I  can't  help  asso- 
ciating it  with  you,  and  thinking  you'll  need 
me." 

Mercy  laughed  at  the  idea,  "  It  was  my 
fainting  yesterday,  depend  upon  it.  You  have 
already  picked  up  your  poor  bird  out  of  the 
dust  and  carried  her  home,  so  be  satisfied. 
Jack,  that  you  have  done  the  very  best  for 
me. 

Jack  shook  his  head.  "  I'm  going  to  your 
father  this  morning  to  ask  him  for  a  berth, 
and  if  he  has  none  ready  I  shall  try  a  foreign 
one.  Can  I  do  anything  for  you  before  I 
go? 

Now  in  time  past,  had  Jack  told  Mercy  that 
he  was  going  away  indefinitely  she  would 
have  clung  to  his  hands,  and  with  tears  in  her 
eyes  have  implored  him  to  stay,  appealing  to 
him  in  behalf  of  his  mother.  But  to-day  she 
was  absent  and  perplexed.  Her  conscience 
was  struggling.  She  was  saying  to  herself, 
was  it  right  to  wish  to  keep  him  here,  when 
she  knew  she  could  never  be  his  wife,  and  it 
behooved  her  to  send  him  into  the  world  that 
he  might  meet  other  women  and  forget  her. 

What  was  the  adage  she  had  heard,  ♦*  A 
sailor  finds  a  love  in  every  port "  ?  Mercy 
knew  little  of  life,  but  she  fancied  it  might  be 
true  ;  and  doubtless  it  was  because  Jack 
knew  but  this  one  port  that  he  loved  her. 


J  A  CK  O'DOON.  2  I  I 

She  looked  at  him — at  his  sturdy  figure,  his 
hard  hands — one  was  marked  with  a  blue 
anchor — at  his  muscular  throat ;  but  then  she 
let  her  glance  fall.  She  dared  not  look  into 
his  burning  eyes,  and  meet  that  conquer- 
ing gaze,  the  look  which  made  men  obey 
him,  young  or  old.  But,  had  she  done  so, 
she  would  have  seen  instead  such  tender- 
ness as  she  had  never  known  existed  in  the 
world. 

Mercy  was  cold,  but  it  was  the  coldness  of 
innocence.     Truly,  what  did  she  know  of  love  .'' 

Women  need  to  be  educated  in  love.  She 
had  never  before  been  talked  to  of  it.  There 
is  a  contagion  in  the  magnetism  of  a  man's 
passion  which  she  had  never  felt. 

Jack  did  not  again  speak  of  himself,  and 
they  walked  on  in  silence  till  they  reached  the 
garden  gate.  Here  he  took  her  hand,  as  they 
stood  behind  the  screen  of  the  wall,  and  kissed 
it  reverently. 

Truly,  Mercy  was  gaining  experience,  and 
her  education  might  fairly  be  said  to  be  begun. 
Jack  blushed  at  his  own  hardihood,  and  Mercy 
being  equally  embarrassed,  they  parted  with- 
out a  word. 

Jack  having  thus  placed  himself  in  a  new 
attitude  toward  her,  she  felt  that  she  had  lost 
a  friend  ;  she  did  not  know  the  value  of  a 
lover  ;  so  she  did  just  what  every  foolish  young 
woman  is  apt  to  do,  when  there  is  no  one  to 
prevent  it.  She  ran  up  to  her  own  room,  shut 
the   door   stealthily,    and   then   threw   herself 


212  JACK  O'DOON. 

down  on  her  bed,  and   sobbed  fit  to  break  her 
heart,  and  why  ? 

Crying  for  Jack.  The  old  Jack  that  had 
passed  away.  The  friend  she  could  not  ex- 
change for  the  lover.  And  yet  there  was  an 
inner  consciousness  in  her  heart,  that  Jack  had 
a  power  strong  enough  to  make  himself  her 
master.  But  no,  she  did  not  love  Jack,  not 
that  love  ! 

Her  cheeks   were  blistered  till  they  burned, 

and    her    eyelids    so    swollen   that    when  she 

.  came  down  to  breakfast  she   looked  a  fright, 

and  astonished  every  one  by  her  unaccountable 

appearance. 


/A  CK  O'DOON. 


213 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

ORD  A'MIGHTY:  Why,  Mercy, 
Vvhat  ye  been  doin'  to  yerse'f  ?  " 
cried  the  Captain,  putting  down 
his  spectacles  from  the  top  of 
his  head,  and  leaning  across  the  corner  of 
the  table  to  look  closely  into  her  face. 

"  I've  been  to  see  Jack,"  she  replied. 

"  Been  to  see  Jack  I  "  he  repeated.  "Why,  I've 
been  a  crawlin'  aroun'  on  tiptoe  this  here 
two  hour  !  I  thought  you  was  abed.  Didn't 
holler,  nor  nothin'  !  I  ain't  got  no  'pinion  o' 
that  Jack  o'  your'n.  He  ain't  never  so  much 
ez  come  a-nigh  me  sence  he  come  home.  A 
prowlin'  roun'   here  las'  night  too,  I  hear'n." 

"  He  probably  thought  you  were  taking  a 
nap,"  said  Mercy,  "  and  no  doubt  you  were  ; 
but  he  wants  to  go  to  sea  again,  and  is  coming 
to  find  out  if  there  is  a  berth  for  him.  If  there 
isn't,  he  intends  to  ship  on  a  foreign  line." 

"  Them  foreign  boats  be  hanged  to  'em  I  " 
cried  the  Captain  angrily,  laying  down  a  spoon- 
ful of  soft-boiled  ^g^,  to   vent  his  intolerance. 

"  I  wish  you'd  make  him  captain  of  the  next 
new  boat  you  get,"  said  Mercy. 


214  -/^  C-A"  O'DOON. 

"  Captain  I  "  roared  the  skipper  in  astonish- 
ment.    "  Why,  he  ain't  nothin'  but  a  boy  !  " 

"  He's  twenty-four  years  old,"  said  Mercy, 
"  and  every  man  and  boy  you've  got  says  he's 
the  bravest  and  best  of  them  all.  Good  sound 
sense  and  courage  and  honesty  are  all  you 
want,  and  who  has  more,  or  knows  more  about 
a  ship  than  Jack  ?  " 

"  Look-a-here,  did  he  tell  you  to  make  that 
fine  speech  to  me,  young  woman  ?  "  said  the 
Captain  suspiciously,  scrutinizing  her  face. 

"  Jack  tell  me  !  Why  no,  of  course  not  I  I 
don't  suppose  he  ever  thought  of  such  a  thing  ; 
but  all  the  same,  I  wish  you'd  do  it." 

A  long  silence  ensued.  The  Captain  wres- 
tled with  an  idea. 

Algie,  sitting  opposite  Mercy,  had  been 
listening  with  eager  interest  to  this  dialogue. 
He  would  have  been  overjoyed  if  the  Captam 
had  promoted  Jack  to  be  admiral  of  the  whole 
flotilla,  or  anything  in  reason  which  would 
remove  him  without  injury.  This  thing  of 
being  obliged  to  witness  Mercy  fainting  at 
sight  of  him,  then  carried  off  like  the  Anados, 
and  now,  when  every  one  supposed  her  still 
sleeping,  to  see  her  appear  with  red  eyes  and 
blistered  cheeks,  and  hear  her  coolly  declare 
she'd  been  to  see  Jack,  and  had  evidently  been 
weeping  over  his  adventures,  was  simply  in- 
sufferable !  He  was  indignant,  and  gave  his 
entire  attention,  apparently,  to  fresh  mackerel 
and  toast. 

"Who    knows,"    thought   he,    "that  fellovv 


JA  CK  O'DOON.  2  I  q 

Jack    may    have    caught    this  very    fish  I  am 
eating." 

Aunt  Polly  looked  disdainfully  across  the 
tea-things,  and  ignored  the  conversation. 

So  the  meal  was  finished  in  silence,  and 
afterwards  the  Captain  drew  a  very  long  breath, 
and  went  forth  to  take  a  constitutional  up  and 
down  the  garden  path.  He  w^as  deep  in  prob- 
lematical thoughts,  whiffing  his  long  reed- 
stemmed  pipe,  and  blowing  smoke  out  of  a 
corner  of  his  mouth. 

Finally  he  pushed  his  hat  back  and  wiped 
his  brow  with  his  red  handkerchief,  as  if  his 
thoughts  were  fatiguing  him.  Algie  lighted  a 
cigarette,  and  he  and  Mercy  went  to  work  in 
the  studio. 

After  an  hour's  chattering  and  some  work, 
Algie  exclaimed,  "  I  think  it  is  a  shame  for  us 
to  lose  this  magnificent  light.  Suppose  we 
begin  the  picture,  if  you  feel  able  to  pose,  after 
you  have  rested.  Meantime  I  will  lay  fresh 
colors,  for  these  are  getting  stale." 

So  he  brought  out  his  paint-box  and  sat 
down  beside  her,  placing  the  box  on  his  knees, 
while  he  scraped  off  the  hardened  paint,  and 
reset  the  palette. 

"  Do  you  always  keep  the  colors  so  ?  "  asked 
Mercy,  pointing  to  the  palette,  which  was  par- 
ticularly brilliant  and  harmonious. 

"Yes,  it  is  a  great  beauty  to  have  a  hand- 
some palette  ;  and  this  appearance  can  only 
be  acquired  with  long  use.  You  see  the 
centre  and  the  right  hand  have  acquired  this 


2i6  JACK  O'DOON. 

dim  gray,  and  brilliancy  with  polishing,  while 
the  blending  of"  the  ingrained  colors  of  this 
setting  is  as  rich  as  an  India  shawl.  This  one 
is  my  pet  If  you  really  mean  to  paint,  I  shall 
leave  it  with  you  as  a  precious  keepsake  ;  for  I 
will  never  use  it  again  after  painting  your  pic- 
ture, and  I  shall  want  you  to  have  something 
I  really  value,  to  remind  you  sometimes  of 
me. 

Abercrombie  looked  at  Mercy,  who  dropped 
her  eyes  quickly.  He  was  sincere  while  he 
spoke.  Who  can  blame  him,  if  time  and  tide 
wait  for  no  man,  and  if,  ere  he  was  ready,  he 
were  forced  to  turn  with  the  tide.  But  let  the 
tide  turn  when  it  might,  he  was  absolutely  in 
earnest  in  every  word  he  uttered  to  Mercy 
during  his  stay  at  Blessington  House.  She 
glanced  coyly  at  him  ;  and  sincerity,  even  the 
sincerity  of  a  fickle  man,  has  something  so 
convincing  in  it,  that  she  believed  him,  and 
replied  with  equal  truth  :  "Will  you  really.^  I 
shall  love  so  to  have  it.  But  there  is  no  chance 
of  my  forgetting  you,  for  I  am  accused  of  being 
one  of  those  dreadful  people  who  never  forget." 

"Oh,  but  you  must  remember  me  for  imagi- 
nary virtues,  and  not  for  actual  faults.  Let  the 
absent  be  ever  justified — or — what  is  the  adage 
I  am  trying  to  quote  ? " 

"  I  could  not  imagine  myself  remembering 
you,  except  in  the  most  agreeable  and  charm- 
ing way,"  replied  Mercy,  quite  coquettishly, 
unconsciously  returning  the  slight  smile  with 
which  Abercrombie  was  regarding  her. 


J  A  CK  O'DOON.  217 

"  I  do  not  quite  know  whether  you're  laugh- 
ing at  me  or  not.  I'm  afraid  I  have  a  tutored 
dread  of  people  who  never  forget.  They  are 
also  the  people  who  never  forgive,  aren't 
they  ?  " 

"  That  must  depend  upon  what  you  mean 
by  forgiving,"  said  Mercy. 

"  I  mean  the  opposite  of  spitefulness  and 
unforgivingness,"  replied  Algie. 

"  As  regards  myself,  I  am  just  as  much  in 
the  dark  as  ever,"  said  Mercy.  "  I  would  not 
harm  a  hair  of  the  head  of  any  one  who  had 
harmed  me,  and  I  think  I  could  and  would  be 
kind  to  such  a  one  to  the  day  of  my  death,  but 
I'd  remember  the  injury  all  the  same.  I  can- 
not forget  that  Granny  Gooch  abuses  me 
whenever  I  go  near  her,  but  that  would  not 
delay  me  for  a  moment  from  taking  her  some- 
thing to  eat  again  as  soon  as  I  could." 

"  Perhaps  that  is  the  charity  which  covers  a 
multitude  of  sins,"  said  he. 

"  Perhaps  so,"  said  she  indifferently. 

"  Still,"  he  persisted,  "  you  have  not  promised 
me  to  forgive  me  in  advance  if  ever  I  offend 
you." 

"  I  do  not  fear  any  evil  from  you,"  said 
Mercy  with  a  smile.  The  expression  of  her 
face  was  so  soft  and  confiding  that  Aber- 
crombie  felt  his  heart  rise  in  his  throat,  and  he 
turned  away  from  her  with  a  sudden  movement. 

"  But  all  the  same,"  he  added  after  a  pause, 
"  if  you  ever  had  cause  to  think  ill  of  me, 
would  you  forgive  me  ?  " 


2i8  JACK  O'DOON. 

"  I  would  never  harm  you,  but  I  could  not 
forget  it  unless  I  could  forget  you,  not  if  I 
lived  a  million  years.  You  would  be  a  unit  to 
me,  but  a  unit  with  the  blemish  of  an  offence, 
because  a  man's  actions  are  essentially  a  part 
of  himself." 

"  I  had  hoped,"  said  Abercrombie,  moving 
aside  to  arrange  his  canvas,  "  that  I  might  in 
time  be  something  more  than  a  cipher  to  you, 
but  if,  at  the  end  of  a  million  of  years,  I  am  to 
find  myself  only  a  unit,  I  fear  I  shall  be  im- 
mortal before  I  become  more." 

Mercy  blushed  and  looked  thoughtfully 
into  the  fire.  Abercrombie's  facile  and  fluent 
tongue  had  uttered  a  thousand  such  pretty 
speeches  and  poured  them  into  the  ears  of 
fair  and  willing  listeners  who  had  pleased  him 
momentarily ;  and  he  was  always  sincere  at 
the  time — just  as  sincere  as  Jack  was,  or  any- 
body else, — too  sincere,  because  he  was  so 
dazed  by  the  glow  of  his  own  imagination  that 
he  failed  to  see  the  injustice  of  his  impulses, 
and  under  the  enthusiasm  of  the  moment  went 
rashly  along  pathways  that  he  was  sometimes 
obliged  to  retrace  with  sorrow. 

When  he  had  arranged  the  light  to  his 
satisfaction,  he  was  wishing  for  an  old  gray 
sail-cloth  to  use  as  a  back-ground  for  Mercy, 
as  that,  in  the  strong  light,  would  have  much 
the  same  effect  as  the  sky  of  his  picture. 

"  I  will  send  to  Jack  for  one,"  said  Mercy 
promptly. 

"  It  seems  to  mc  you  depend  upon  Jack  for 


JACK  O'DOON.  219 

everything  !  "  exclaimed  Algie,  irritably.  "  He 
is  perfectly  ubiquitous — turns  up  everywhere 
— from  the  grave  itself  !  " 

Mercy  looked  at  him  in  astonishment,  and 
was  perplexed  at  seeing  an  impatient  frown 
upon  his  face. 

She  answered  rather  tartly,  "  I  suppose  the 
natural  reason  is  that  Jack  is  always  to  be  de- 
pended  upon.  He  is  found  where  he  is  wanted, 
always  does  well  what  he  undertakes  to  do, 
and  if  he  does  not  make  life  a  success  for  him- 
self, does  so  for  other  people.  Consequently, 
if  I  send  to  Jack  for  the  sail-cloth,  I'm  certain 
it  will  be  exactly  what  you  want,"  and  she 
suited  the  action  to  the  word. 

A  silence  ensued  between  them.  Mercy 
stood  on  the  rug,  looking  into  the  fire.  Both 
she  and  Abercrombie  felt  contrite,  but  each 
hesitated  to  make  an  overture.  Algie  oiled 
his  canvas  and  afterwards  diligently  rubbed 
off  the  oil. 

"  Why  did  you  do  that  ?  "  asked  Mercy. 

"  Because  if  the  pores  of  the  canvas  are 
moist  with  oil,  the  fresh  paint  I  put  on  to-day 
will  readily  combine  with  what  I  put  on  on 
Monday,  and  there  will  be  no  difference  of 
feeling  between  them." 

«'  Feeling  ?  "  said  Mercy  interrogatively. 

"  Feelmg,  in  painting,"  said  Algie,  "  is  a 
reflex  term.  If  I  rubbed  your  finger  with 
sandpaper,  it  would  be  you  who  would  feel 
instead  of  the  paper.  One  layer  of  paint  lying 
harshly  upon  another  would  irritate  your  taste 


220  JACK  O'DOON. 

in  much  the  same  way,  and  I  should  say  the 
paint  feh  harsh  or  the  feeling  was  wrong. 
Comprenez-vous  ?  " 

"  Far/aile?;ien/,"  replied  Mercy;  "but  you 
would  better  not  draw  me  out  in  French,"  she 
added,  laughing,  ••  for  I  think  you  would  die 
of  internal  convulsions  ;  though  I  know  you 
would  be  much  too  kind  to  laugh  outright  at 
me  !  " 

'•  Try  me,"  said  Algie.  "  It  will  give  you  a 
happy  expression  for  your  picture,  beside  the 
charity  of  relieving  me  of  the  hard  work  of  my 
own  thoughts." 

After  a  little  persuasion  Mercy  essayed  to 
speak  French  with  him,  and  Algie  was  sur- 
prised, not  only  at  the  large  number  of  words 
which  she  knew,  but  at  the  atrociousness  of 
her  pronunciation.  He  was  bravely  polite  ; 
but  they  were  both  at  last  in  convulsions  of 
laughter,  when  Jack  entered  the  room  with  a 
great  bundle  of  sail-cloth  over  his  shoulder. 

Mercy  and  Algie  looked  so  strangely  and 
exasperatingly  on  free  and  easy  terms  to  poor 
Jack,  that  he  stood  abashed  at  his  unannounced 
intrusion,  and  did  not  speak  a  word. 

•*  Come  in.  Jack,  it  was  so  good  of  you,"  said 
Mercy,  eagerly  going  forward  to  meet  him.  "  I 
did  not  mean  that  you  should  trouble  yourself 
to  bring-  it  to  us." 

That  "  as  "  was  an  outrage  to  Jack.  When 
had  serving  her  been  a  trouble  to  him.  "  I 
was  nearly  here  when  I  met  Splugen,"  he  ex- 
plained apologetically,  "  so  I  w^alked  back  to 


JACK  O'DOON.  221 

the  village  and  uncorded  the  gaff."  Sure 
enough,  the  stout  fellow  had  borne  the  spar 
upon  his  shoulder,  with  the  sail  suspended 
from  it.  It  was  well  he  had  done  so,  for  the 
gaff  answered  all  the  purposes  of  a  curtain 
bar,  upon  which  the  sail  moved  easily  with  its 
rings  ;  and  Jack,  with  handy  readiness,  adjusted 
it  diagonally  across  the  corner  of  the  room. 
Thus  the  mildewed  sail  gave  the  "  values  "  of 
a  mottled  sky  behind  Mercy's  figure. 

Jack's  ready  understanding,  despite  his  ig- 
norance of  the  requirements  of  a  studio,  and 
the  vagueness  of  the  message  Splugen  had 
carried,  aroused  Algie's  admiration,  and  Mercy 
could  not  resist  exchanging  a  glance  with  him 
which  meant,  "  I  told  you  so." 

"  Sit  down  with  us,  Jack,"  said  Mercy,  en- 
treatingly.  "  Come,  take  my  chair  by  the  fire  ; 
and  now  that  everything  is  ready,  shan't  I 
stand  for  you,  Mr.  Abercrombie,  and  Jack  can 
tell  you  if  I  am  looking  my  best  ?  " 

Mercy  placed  herself  before  the  screen,  and 
Jack,  leaning  with  his  elbow  upon  the  mantel- 
piece, observed  the  gentle,  slight,  and  deferen- 
tial touches  with  which  Abercrombie  arranged 
her  pose. 

It  was  hard  for  Jack,  although  it  interested 
him  deeply,  despite  the  torment  of  it,  and  he 
continued  standing,  silendy  watching  Algie, 
while  he  laid  on  the  masses. 

"  I  will  stop  now  for  a  little  while,"  said  the 
artist  at  length.  "  You  begin  to  look  pale,  and 
I  cannot,  therefore,  put  in  the  face.     But   I'm 


22  2  JACK  O'DOON. 

glad  I  have  such  a  happy  effect  inthe  mass  of 
the  drapery." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  the  mass  ?  "  said 
Mercy. 

"  I  think  I  shall  write  a  book,"  said  Algie, 
laughing,  "  and  call  it  '  Experiences  with  an 
audience  of  one.'" 

At  this  remark  Jack  made  a  little  move- 
ment, as  it  he  felt  de  trop. 

"  Pray  do  not  go,"  exclaimed  Algie,  "  '  the 
more  the  merrier.'  "  This  remark,  accompa- 
nied by  his  most  cordial  smile,  appeased  Jack's 
sensitiveness,  and  he  sat  dov/n  near  Mercy  on 
the  lounge,  which  had  been  drawn  up  beside 
the  fire. 

"  Shall  the  lecture  be  in  French,  Miss  Bless- 
ington  ?  " 

"  Oh,  pray  forbear  !  "  cried  Mercy,  adding,  as 
she  turned  toward  Jack  :  '♦  Do  you  know, 
when  you  came  in,  I  was  trying  to  talk  French  ! 
Mr.  Abercrombie  had  endured  it  like  a  Spar- 
tan for  a  good  halt-hour,  and  had  just  broken 
down." 

So  that  was  what  they  were  laughing 
about  !     Not  so  bad  after  all,  thought  Jack. 

"  Enough  is  as  good  as  a  feast,"  continued 
Mercy,  "  so  let  me  enjoy  the  freedom  of  my 
native  tongue." 

"Well,  ladies  and  gentlemen,"  began  Algie, 
pompously,  "  you  two  must  imagine  I'm  before 
the  footlights,  with  thousands  of  people  listen- 
ing ;  those  of  you  who  in  early  youth  have  in- 
dulged the   charms   of  moonlight  will  readily 


JACK  O'DOON.  223 

understand  mass  without  detail.  No,  but 
really,"  said  Algie,  gravely,  "  on  a  moonlight 
night  we  see  the  mass  only,  because  the  light 
is  not  strong  enough  to  develop  the  detail. 
The  tone  is  too  black,  because  the  high  lights 
are  not  high  enough,  and  the  shadows  are 
not  mitigated  by  reflected  lights.  Therein  is 
the  charm  of  moonshine  ;  it  appeals  to  the 
imagination,  and  rests  the  eyes  and  brain, 
after  the  multiplicity  of  details  and  excessive 
realism  of  broad  daylight." 

This  explanation  was  satisfactory  to  Jack, 
and  he  thought  he  liked  Abercrombie.  Who 
could  know  Algie  and  not  like  him  ?  His 
manners  were  so  simple,  and  his  voice  and 
smile  had  the  ingenuousness  of  a  child's.  It 
was  the  most  charming  art,  because  it  was  the 
completion  of  nature,  not  its  affectation.  He 
imitated  nothing,  but  he  had  the  wisdom  of  a 
man  of  the  world,  and  the  taste  of  a  gentle- 
man, to  show  himself  to  the  best  possible  ad- 
vantage to  every  one. 

At  this  moment  Aunt  Polly,  coming  down- 
stairs for  a  walk,  looked  in  at  the  door.  She 
nodded  distantly  to  Jack,  and  retired.  Poor 
Jack,  he  could  not  conceive  what  he  had  done 
to  provoke  Aunt  Polly  to  assume  this  half-dis- 
dainful manner  toward  him. 

Algie  resumed  his  palette,  and  Mercy  posed 
again. 

It  seemed  to  Jack  that  he  had  never  seen 
her  look  quite  so  lovely  as  she  did  that  morning. 

It  was  very  mild  weather.     The  fire  died 


224  JACK  O' BOON. 

out,  and  the  sunshine  streamed  in  at  the  win- 
dow, so  that  Algie  was  obHged  to  stretch  a 
sheet  across  it,  and  when  Antonio  announced 
that  lunch  was  ready,  he  declared  that  the 
morning  had  been  altogether  too  short. 

"  Come  along,  Jack,"  said  Mercy  ;  "  Mother 
Margery  can  spare  you,  and  you  shall  sit  by 


9> 

me. 


Jack  looked  at  his  hands,  which  he  had  for- 
gotten, and  which  were  besmeared  with  grease 
from  the  socket  of  the  gaff. 

••  I  see  you  are  a  subject  for  Bill  Junk,"  she 
said.     "  Run  down,  while  we  wait  for  you." 

So  Jack  disappeared  below,  and  soon  re- 
turned, looking  very  smart  and  handsome  in 
his  burly,  picturesque  way ;  and,  much  to 
Algie's  surprise,  they  all  sat  down  to  table 
together. 

"  By  Gimmeny  !  "  cried  the  Captain,  at  the 
sight  of  Jack,  "  you're  a  fellow  !  " 

Mercy  smiled,  for  she  knew  the  import  of 
her  father's  ejaculations.  They  were  oracular, 
and  "  By  Gimmeny  "  was  of  good  omen. 
Then  she  recalled  his  preoccupied  walk  in  the 
garden,  and  "  By  Gimmeny  "  meant  that  it 
had  begotten  something  satisfactory,  of  which 
Jack  w^as  the  subject.  Her  spirits  went  up 
accordingly. 

"  I  heerd  ye  run  afoul  o'  a  storm,"  said  the 
Captain,  sitting  down  and  putting  his  elbows 
on  the  table,  and  looking  at  Jack  inquiringly 
out  of  his  shrewd  gray  eyes. 

«'  The  sea  were  pretty  roughish,"  said  Jack, 


,  JACK  O  DOOM.  225 

relapsing  at  once  into  grammar  wliich  rivalled 
the  Captain's  own. 

"  Yes,"  drawled  the  Captain,  "  I've  had  a 
visitor  what  give  me  a  longer  account  o*  it 
than  that,  young  man." 

All  eyes  were  turned  in  astonishment  toward 
the  Captain.  .  "  You  young  uns,"  he  continued 
viciously,  "  is  bin  keepin'  up  such  a  cacklin* 
and  jabberin'  in  thar,  it's  no  sort  o*  wonder 
ye  can't  hear  nothin'  but  yerselves.  Mercy, 
he  sent  his  love  to  you." 

Both  of  the  young  men  looked  up,  and  Aber- 
crombie  asked  himself,  "  Whose  turn  next  ?  " 
He  even  looked  upon  his  own  susceptibilities 
as  less  meretricious  since  he  at  least  had  grace 
enough  to  have  done  with  one  affair  before 
embroiling  himself  in  another.  But  here  was 
Mercy,  with  a  third  man  sending  his  love  to 
her. 

"  Sent  his  love  to  me  !  "  exclaimed  Mercy, 
incredulously,  "  Why,  who  in  the  world  was 
it?" 

"  Do  you  suppose  it  were  any  young  idjut  .-* 
I've  got  enuff  o'  them  sort,  closer  home,"  cast- 
ing a  baleful  glance  around  the  table.  "  Why, 
Freemantle,  of  course  !  Who  else  w^ere  it  like 
to  be,  reportin'  to  me,  arter  gettin'  wrecked 
on  one  o'  my  boats.  Which  is  sayin'  more  for 
his  manners  than  some  other  folks  I  knows 


on  ! 


"  I  was  on  my  way  to  speak  to  you  when  I 

met  Splugen,  but  Mercy " 

"  Jest  you  stop  right  thar,"  interrupted  the 
IS 


226  JACK  O'DOON. 

Captain.  •'  I'm  gittin'  tired  o'  havin'  Mercy 
flung  at  my  head  all  day  long,  an'  all  night 
too  for  that  matter  ;  fur  it's  a-gittin'  that  awful, 
I  jes'  dream  about  it  nights  !  " 

The  Captain  had  a  good  appetite,  notwith- 
standing this  atrocious  filial  nightmare. 

"  I  declar'  before  the  Lord,"  he  ejaculated 
with  a  sigh,  when  he  had  finished  his  soup, 
"  an'  you  young  uns  will  find  out  soon  enough 
from  experience,  that  a  man  ain't  o'  no  use  in 
God's  world,  but  to  be  trampled  on  by  the 
W'Omen  folks  in  his  family !  I  pities  men, 
they's  so  down-trod  !  See  me  !  One  might 
have  expected  to  find  a  clattering  skeleton. 
Here  I've  lived  in  this  world  fifty-seven  years, 
to  be  nuthin'  at  last  but  a  figur'-head,  a 
darned  ugly  one  at  that,  but  all  the  same,  to 
be  a  figur'-head,  to  run  my  ole  nose  into  every 
sea  what  comes,  that  this  here  young  woman 
might  ride  on  my  back  and  steer  me  'roun' 
to  suit  her  own  notions  !  "  The  Captain 
dammed  his  farther  utterance  by  cramming 
his  mouth  full  of  bread,  but  he  went  on  mum- 
bling while  he  chewed  it,  until  after  a  while 
the  words  could  be  distinguished — "  I  sup- 
pose you  ain't  got  no  more  use  for  the  sea,  is 
ye,  Jack  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Captain,  I  was  comin'  up  this  mornin' 
to  ax  ye  if  ye  had  a  berth  open  for  me  ;  seein' 
ez  how  the  ole  hull  ain't  like  to  be  set  to  rights 
afore  next  season." 

"  Well,  I  ain't  concluded  nuthin'  yet,  young 
man,"  drawled  the  Captain,  looking  at  Jack 


JACK  O' BOON.  227 

out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye,  "  but  ole  Free- 
mantle  do  say  it  warn't  right  to  let  ye  slide  ; 
an'  nobody  shall  say  o'  Solomon  Blessin'ton," 
he  continued,  in  his  most  spread-eagle  manner, 
leaning  back  in  his  chair,  and  thrusting  his 
thumbs  into  his  arm-holes,  "  nobody  shall 
say  that  Solomon  Blessin'ton  ain't  got  no  ap- 
preciation o'  the  genuine  thing ;  and  what's 
more,  nobody  shall  say  ez  what  Josiah  Free- 
mantle  do  say  ain't  the  Lord's  truth  !  " 

He  uttered  these  last  words  very  emphatic- 
ally, and,  leaning  forward,  looked  at  Jack  as  if 
he  were  going  to  eat  him.  Mercy  and  Aber- 
crombie  looked  on  in  breathless  expectation. 

"  And  what  do  you  'uns  all  think  Free- 
mantle  do  say  ? "  The  Captain  glanced  in- 
quiringly around,  scowling  at  each  one  in 
turn  ;  then  his  countenance  relaxed  and  he 
continued :  "  Why,  Lord-a-massy,  to  begin 
with,  he  were  that  upset  he  drunk  a  pint  o' 
grog,  hot  at  that,  afore  he  found  his  tongue, 
an'  he  did  say  that  '  ef  it  hadn't  a  bin  fur  that 
boy  * — he  was  a  meanin'  you,  Jack — '  ef  it  hadn't 
a  bin  fur  that  boy,  we  wouldn't  none  o'  us  a 
got  home.' " 

•'  There  ain't  no  tellin'  what  a  man  won't 
say  when  he's  dun  drunk  a  pint  o'  grog,"  said 
Jack,  completely  overcome  with  confusion,  and 
blushing  painfully. 

"  Lord,  ef  he  ain't  ez  red  ez  a  gal  !  "  cried 
the  Captain,  enjoying  the  whole  thing  im- 
mensely. Mercy  put  her  hand  under  the  table- 
cloth, and  patted  Jack's  hand  affectionately. 


228  JACK  O' DOOM. 

"  Well,  Freemantle  says,  says  he,  '  that 
boy ' — meanin'  o'  you,  Jack — '  is  got  more  sense 
nor  ten  men,  and  he's  got,'  says  he,  '  hands 
afore  an'  hands  behind  o'  him,  an'  legs  the 
same,  and  wits  to  match  'em  all.'" 

The  Captain  paused  long  enough  for  Aber- 
crombie  and  Mercy  fully  to  conceive  this 
monster,  and  then  proceeded.  "'That's  a 
queer  sort  o'  a  boy,'  says  I  to  him.  Did  ye 
ever  hear  o'  sech  a  kind  o'  a  thing  down  in 
your  parts,  Mr.  Applecorn  ?  " 

Algie  denied  promptly. 

Jack  was  ready  to  melt  with  fervent  heat, 
and  Mercy  again  caressed  his  hand  under  the 
table-cloth. 

"An'  bein'  ez  Freemantle  says  he  ain't  got 
no  wife,  an'  no  childern,  an'  he's  got  about  his 
stomachful  o'  salt  water  arter  this  here  dose, 
he's  a  mine  ter  give  up  the  ship,  an'  what  does 
ye  think  o'  that  fur  a  ole  fool  ?  "  demanded  the 
Captain,  suddenly  pausing,  and  scowling  at 
Jack,  but  Mercy  discovered  a  twinkle  in  her 
father's  eye. 

"  And  so,"  she  interrupted,  eagerly  clapping 
her  hands,  "  you  are  going  to  buy  a  new  brig 
and  give  it  to  Jack  !  Oh,  Jack,  you  lucky  old 
boy  !  "  she  exclaimed,  jumping  up  from  the 
table  and  rushing  toward  him.  She  looked  as 
if  she  were  going  to  embrace  him,  but  recov- 
ered her  senses,  and  hugged  her  father  in- 
stead. 

"  I  ain't  never  said  the  word,"  cried  the 
Captain,  pretending  to  suffocate,  but  beaming 


JACK  O' DOOM.  229 

with  delight.  "  Look  here,  gal.  I'd  like  to 
know  somethin'  about  this  here  business. 
Whose  a-gettin'  this  here  ship,  what's  a  gwine 
to  break  me  right  now  to  buy  ?  You  er  Jack  ? 
Fur  it  do  'pear  to  me  like  ye  was  a-tryin'  to 
boss  the  whole  business  !  " 

The  Captain,  in  the  presence  of  the  new 
idea,  turned  upon  Jack  his  inquiring  eyes  ;  but 
Jack  was  leaning  with  his  chin  upon  his  palm, 
and  was  watching  Mercy  and  the  Captain  with 
speechless  emotion,  and  a  young  hero's  tears 
of  passionate  gratitude  at  this  recognition  of 
his  courage  were  glittering  in  his  eyes. 

•'  Dear  Jack,"  cried  Mercy,  looking  at  him  a 
moment  inquiringly,  and  then,  overcome  by 
her  sympathy  and  joy  for  him,  she  lifted  his 
face  with  her  hands,  and  wiped  the  tears  from 
his  eyes  with  her  handkerchief,  kissing  him 
tenderly,  while  Jack,  with  unutterable  devotion, 
clasped  his  arms  for  a  moment  around  her 
waist. 

"You  will  never  regret  it,  father,"  said  she 
with  certainty,  resting  her  hands,  while  she 
spoke,  upon  Jack's  shoulders,  and  displaying 
the  pride  and  assurance  of  one  who  guaran- 
tees her  own  as  equal  to  any  possible  demand  ; 
and  tears  trembled  and  fell  from  her  lashes 
and  splashed  upon  Jack's  hair. 

Algie,  whose  ready  sympathies  were  with 
the  young  man,  turned  his  eyes  away  to  reliev^e 
his  embarrassment,  feeling  that  the  scene  was 
too  sacred  for  his  scrutiny.  In  doing  so  he 
encountered  the  stony  look  of  indignation  with 


230  M  CK  o'doon: 

which  Aunt  Polly  was  regarding  Mercy.  It 
was  sufficient  to  inspire  Algie  with  the  most 
sudden  and  implacable  aversion  for  her.  It 
had  never  occurred  to  him  to  misconstrue 
Mercy's  impulsive  demonstration  toward  Jack  ; 
on  the  contrary,  it  had  shown  to  him  that  she 
must  feel  for  Jack  only  as  toward  a  brother  ; 
and  it  inspired  him  with  a  tender  reverence  for 
her  guileless  simplicity.  He  argued  very 
justly  to  his  own  mind,  that  it  was  because  the 
kindness  Jack  had  found  so  overwhelming  had 
been  of  Mercy'  s  own  seeking  that  she  wished 
to  share  his  blushes  and  embarrassment. 

The  Captain  was  greatly  moved  by  Jack's 
modesty,  and  blew  his  nose  violently,  and 
winked  persistently  at  Sailor,  who  endeavored 
to  elucidate  the  complication  by  climbing 
upon  his  master's  knee. 

"  I  declar'  I  never  see  the  like  !  "  cried  the 
•Captain  impatiently.  "  Such  a  fellow,  two 
such  of 'em  ! "  he  added,  dimly  forgetful  of 
Mercy's  sex.  "  I  do  declar'  before  judgment, 
that  ef  Freemantle  wasn't  a  man  what  never 
praised  nobody,  I'd  give  up,  ef  I  thought 
such  a  red-faced,  blushin'  boy  were  fit  to  have 
no  ship  at  all !  But  Freemantle  do  say,  and 
he  ain't  no  liar,  that  that  very  boy,"  shaking 
his  finger  at  Jack,  "were  the  very  backbone  o' 
the  whole  crew.  An'  look  at  him  !  " — they  all 
looked  at  him  out  of  the  corners  of  their  eyes. 
"  Fetch  her  out,  Tony,  an'  boost  him  up  !  " 

But  Tony  was  not  anywhere  to  be  seen.  He 
had  slipped  out  silently,  and  his  dry  old  bones 


J  A  CK  o'doon:  231 

had  long  ago  rattled  down  the  stairs  to  carry 
the  news  to  the  "  watch  below." 

After  luncheon  was  finished  there  was 
nothing  for  Mercy  to  do  but  go  home  with 
Jack  to  tell  Mother  Margery  the  news,  laughing, 
and  dangling  upon  Jack's  arm  as  they  hurried 
along,  and  Algie  was  left  to  sulk. 


232 


J  A  CK  O'DOON, 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

HE  happy  April  days  were  gone,  the 
picture  was  tinished,  and  Aber- 
crombie  had  no  longer  excuse  to 
linger. 

He  had  not  yet  uttered  to  Mercy  the  words 
"  I  love  you,"  but  every  smile  and  glance 
had  told  her  so.  When  his  conscience  took 
him  to  task,  in  the  dark  hours  of  the  night,  he 
had  protested  it  was  honor  which  held  his 
tongue.  He  must  pay  his  debts  and  get 
ahead.  He  could  not  marry  her  for  her  father's 
money  ;  and  so  he  went  about  breaking  her 
heart  instead. 

One  thing  unsettled  his  resolution. 
He,  too,  had  begun  to  rely  upon  Mercy  to 
direct  his  conscience,  but  upon  this  momentous 
subject  he  could  not  consult  her.  He  could 
not  put  the  query,  "  Is  it  right  for  a  poor 
fellow  like  myself  to  offer  you  his  heart  and 
hand,  when  the  hand  is  full  of  unpaid  bills, 
and  the  heart,  by  force  of  habit,  is  disreputably 
uncertain  ?  " 

The  true  difficulty  was  that  though  he  loved 
Mercy  much,  he  loved  Algernon  Abercrombie 
more.     If  he  were  rich,  he  was  kindly  certain, 


J  A  CK  O'DOON.  233 

he  would  marry  her  on  the  spot ;  but  he  could 
not  brook  the  thought  of  humiliating  himself 
to  ask  for  Mercy's  money  along  with  herself. 

He  shrank  with  secret  dread  from  leaving 
her  ;  and  she,  scarcely  knowing  her  own  mind, 
exerted  herself  to  keep  him.  Hitherto  every 
wish  of  her  heart  h  ad  been  gratified — even  Jack, 
who  had  been  as  dead,  had  returned  living  ; 
but  this  wish,  so  vital  and  so  dear,  only  Aber- 
crombie  could  gratify,  and  he  put  his  vanity 
as  a  fetish  before  him,  and  bowed  down  and 
worshipped  it,  calling  it  his  integrity,  and 
sacrificing  Mercy  to  the  false  god. 

During  the  last  days  Abercrombie  had 
spent  every  waking  hour  at  her  side  ;  and  he 
was  so  brilliant  and  so  clever  that  she  depended 
upon  him  as  upon  an  inspiration,  and  did  not 
miss  Jack,  who  was  forever  running  off  to 
Richmond  to  see  after  the  new  ship  which  was 
being  fitted  out  under  his  supervision. 

Mercy  had  an  advantage  in  knowing  nothing 
of  Abercrombie's  previous  flirtations,  since 
the  knowledge  would  have  made  her  less  con- 
fiding. It  was  her  trust  in  him,  beyond  all 
else,  which  endeared  her  to  him.  The  thought 
that  she  would  suffer  if  he  neglected  her,  made 
him  miserable. 

He  told  her  he  would  return  to  Cassandra 
Bay  before  the  summer  was  gone,  and  they 
planned  excursions  together  on  the  map. 

It  was  the  last  evening,  and  they  sat  near 
the  easel  upon  which  stood  the  little  picture 
he  had  first  painted. 


234  JACK  O'DOON. 

*•  You  can  never  know  how  I  shall  treasure 
this,"  said  he,  resting-  his  hand  lovingly  upon 
the  sketch,  and  looking  at  her  as  if  he  wished 
that  he  could  drink  the  heart  out  of  her  eyes 
ere  he  left  her.  Her  eyes  lingered  timidly, 
bewilderedly,  answering  his,  and  then  she 
dropped  them  in  shame. 

An  unknown  power  had  conquered  her. 
Abercrombie  could  not  resist  taking  her  hand 
— only  for  a  moment — but  the  moment  length- 
ened, and  neither  of  them  spoke.  At  length, 
tears  swam  in  Mercy's  eyes;  she  drew  her  hand 
hastily  away,  and,  before  he  could  realize  her 
intention,  had  fled  from  the  room. 

After  that  she  avoided  him.  He  had  never 
a  chance  for  one  word  with  her  ;  but  he  had 
seen  enough  of  Mercy  to  know  that  her  heart 
must  have  been  stirred  to  the  very  bottom 
ere  her  tears  would  have  witnessed  against 
her. 

When  she  had  left  him,  he  stood  irresolute  ; 
then  he  covered  his  face  with  his  hands  like 
a  man  who  prays,  and  wrung  them  together, 
struggling  with  his  passion,  walking  to  and 
fro  in  the  room. 

He  felt  that  the  ground  whereon  he  stood 
was  holy  ground,  and  that  the  woman  was 
sacred  to  him. 

He  knew  he  was  a  nobler  man  since  the 
light  of  her  life,  with  its  purity  and  singleness 
of  purpose,  had  shone  upon  his  ;  and  the 
question  pressed  him  sorely,  would  he  not  be 
happier  and  better  if  he  were  to  put  aside  the 


JACK  O'DOON.  235 

conventional  obstacles  which  stood  in  his  way, 
abandon  the  commonplace  life  of  a  man-about- 
town  with  an  enemy  in  the  social  position 
which  he  could  not  afford  to  sustain,  and 
marry  Mercy,  if  she  would  be  his  wife  ? 

Algernon  fought  a  great  battle.  His  foes 
were  Pride  and  Prejudice  ;  and  he  believed 
himself  a  conquering  hero,  when  at  best  he 
was  but  a  vaunting  coward,  in  deciding  at 
last  to  go  away  in  silence. 

But  he  was  a  hero  who  felt  like  a  thief. 
When  remorse  was  added  to  his  grief,  he 
cajoled  his  kinder  nature  into  calling  his 
selfishness  prudence. 

It  w^as  the  first  time  in  his  life  that  he  had 
ever  attempted  to  practice  that  questionable 
virtue.  He  was  alarmed  at  his  own  earnest- 
ness, and,  as  time  went  by,  he  found  himself 
almost  mad  with  desire  to  possess  the  girl. 

The  morning  he  left  the  old  house,  he  en- 
deavored to  speak  with  her  alone  ;  but  she, 
imagining  that  he  had  detected  her  feelings 
and  pitied  them,  and  ashamed  of  the  grief 
which  she  could  not  hide,  avoided  him,  so  that 
he  w^as  obliged  to  say  good-bye  before  the 
assembled  family,  where  all — even  the  green 
parrot — joined  in  a  noisy  farewell. 

He  looked  back  as  he  was  driven  from  the 
door,  beseeching  one  loving  glance,  but  she 
quickly  turned  away — a  dreadful  misery  in  her 
heart  which  she  dared  not  utter  to  herself. 

The  old  house  was  like  a  morgue.  The 
very  fish-nets  were  full  of  associations.     The 


236  JACK  O' DOOM. 

sunshine  streamed  into  the  room.  She  took 
Algie's  palette  upon  her  thumb,  and,  putting 
her  arms  around  the  easel,  leaned  upon  it. 
She  was  so  intense  in  all  her  feelings,  that  to 
be  deprived  of  any  one  of  the  few  things  she 
loved  deadened  her  with  wretchedness,  and 
it  became  labor  to  lift  a  hand  or  make  a  step. 
What  did  such  suffenng  mean  ?  She  felt  that 
she  could  not  endure  it  for  long.  The  pain  in 
her  heart  came  back,  and  the  muscles  of  her 
throat  choked  her.  She  pressed  her  hands 
upon  her  side.  She  was  feeling  now  for  her- 
self, the  pain  she  had  so  often  before  suffered 
for  others — only  more — far  more  of  it.  It 
seemed  as  if  it  could  only  stop  when  the  heart 
should  stand  still. 

She  threw  herself  on  the  lounge  and  pressed 
the  pillow  under  her  side,  but  the  anguish 
continued. 

Abercrombie,  judging  her  by  the  reserve  of 
her  farewell,  could  not  have  believed  that  she 
could  suffer  so  for  him.  How  could  he — how 
could  any  man — understand  the  distrust  a 
woman  feels  of  her  ability  to  withstand  temp- 
tation which  makes  her,  in  her  effort  to  protect 
herself,  do  the  very  opposite  of  the  thing  she 
desires  to  do  ? 

The  woman  in  whom  this  instinct  is  lacking 
is  incapable  of  virtue. 

Abercrombie  understood  women  as  well  as 
did  most  men  of  his  age  and  experience,  but  it 
is  impossible  that  any  man  should  know 
women  thoroughly,  since  in  the  two  opposing 


JACK  O'DOON.  237 

natures  the  superlative  virtues  are  courage  to 
attack  and  integrity  to  defend. 

Tlie  Captain,  blissfully  ignorant  of  Mercy's 
heartache  at  home,  which  he  would  have 
given  all  he  owned  in  the  world  to  heal,  was 
excessively  talkative  and  facetious  as  they 
jogged  along  to  the  station,  Algie  morosely 
silent  and  ill  at  ease.  If  their  thoughts  could 
have  been  known,  a  very  ill-assorted  pair  they 
would  have  seemed. 

The  Captain  was  bubbling  over  with  satis- 
faction, and,  as  soon  as  they  reached  Richmond, 
dragged  Algie  off  to  a  framer's  to  choose  a 
frame. 

Algie  wished  it  to  be  subservient  to  the  pic- 
ture ;  but  the  Captain  greeted  his  choice  with 
a  derisive  jeer.  "I  ain't  got  but  one  child,  and 
I  choose  fur  her  to  have  everything  o'  the 
best  J  "  he  said. 

The  shopkeeper  agreed  with  the  customer, 
and  when  the  picture  reached  Blessington 
House,  it  shone  like  the  dome  of  the  Krem- 
lin. 

At  the  foot  of  Abercrombie's  stairs  they 
parted.  The  Captain  held  the  young  man's 
hand  for  a  long  time  in  his  large,  cordial 
grasp,  urging  him  again  and  again  to  come 
back  to  Cassandra  to  see  them  all,  adding 
that  he  knew  Mercy  would  be  "  inore'n  glad 
to  see  him."  And  then  he  took  out  his  red- 
silk  handkerchief  and  blew  his  nose  and  went 
away,  leaving  Algie  standing  in  the  doorway, 
watching  him  till  he  was  lost  in  the  crowd. 


238  JACK  O'DOON. 

Algie  dreaded  to  think  that  that  might  be  the 
last  of  Cassandra. 

He  thoughtfully  ascended  the  stairs,  expect- 
ing to  be  able  to  take  up  his  old  life  again 
just  where  he  had  left  it.  But  things  did  not 
seem  the  same  to  him.  He  missed  the  warmth 
of  heart  which  had  pervaded  Blessington 
House.  His  rooms  looked  lonely  and  cold 
after  the  fluffy  comfort  of  that  humbler  home. 

It  was  a  mild  evening  in  May,  but  he  felt 
chilly  and  ordered  a  fire. 

His  servant  handed  him  a  bundle  of  letters. 
Most  of  them  were  bills,  some  of  them  duns, 
so  he  put  them  away.  His  mind  was  too 
bruised  from  the  recent  conflict  to  confront  a 
new  perplexity. 

He  hurried  the  man  about  his  work,  and 
when  he  had  finally  dismissed  him,  though 
early  in  the  evening,  he  locked  the  door,  and 
sat  down  to  rest  his  brain  and  assure  himself 
that  he  had  acted  for  the  best.  But  the  more 
he  thought  over  his  position,  the  less  tenable 
it  seemed.  He  longed  to  go  back  to  Mercy, 
as  to  a  tribunal  of  that  grace  whose  name 
she  bore,  to  tell  her  of  his  perplexities.  He 
glanced  at  the  unopened  bills.  Would  she 
frown  upon  him  and  rebuke  the  enormity  of 
his  persistent  carelessness  ?  Not  that  he  was 
more  criminal  than  most  young  men  of  fashion 
whose  incomes  are  out  of  proportion  to  their 
position  ;  but  most  women,  even  the  wives  of 
such  men,  would  think  such  neglect  of  effort 
to  adjust  expenditure  to  income,  criminal. 


JACK  O' BOON.  239 

He  was  honest  enough  not  to  commit  the 
fallacy  of  cursing  his  luck  ;  he  knew  there  was 
no  luck  about  it.  Stretched  out  in  his  chair 
and  staring  blindly  at  the  clock,  he  felt  like 
Prometheus  bound,  and  longed  to  break  away 
from  the  debts  which  threatened  to  devour  his 
substance,  and  be  free  of  the  trammels  of  fam- 
ily pride  and  society,  and  live  to  suit  himself. 

Himself,  as  he  looked  that  personage  over, 
was  a  weak  slave  to  the  admiration  of  other 
men — a  one-sided  creature,  leaning  continually 
upon  others.  If  he  must  lean  upon  another, 
why  might  not  that  other  be  Mercy,  who  was 
so  strong  to  support  those  who  needed  moral 
co-operation  ? 

He  wondered  at  his  own  infatuation  for  the 
girl.  Her  impalpable  image  seemed  almost 
to  touch  his  soul,  and  he  dreaded  to  meet  his 
own  mother,  for  fear  that  her  pleasantry  might 
touch  upon  his  love. 

He  took  the  little  picture  out  of  his  port- 
manteau, and  stood  it  up  before  the  clock  on 
the  mantelpiece,  and  kissed  it  with  an  excess 
of  tenderness,  murmuring  over  it.  Aber- 
crombie  was  a  particularly  gentle  man,  and 
all  these  little  acts  were  gently  done,  as  if  he 
were  touching  Mercy  herself. 

His  reverie  was  full  of  poignant  contrition. 
The  intensest  longing  to  implore  her  love  and 
forgiveness  rent  his  breast.  The  memory  of 
the  tears  he  had  seen  her  shed  scalded  his 
heart  as  if  they  had  been  hot  blood  dropping 
upon  it. 


240  JACK  O' BOON. 

Algie  was  not  vicious.  Doubtless  he  was 
nobler  than  he  knew, — liberal  certainly,  and 
extravagant  to  folly  ;  but  his  extravagance 
consisted  mainly  in  giving  beyond  what  he 
could  afford  of  his  bread  and  meat,  or  rather 
of  his  champagne  and  terrapin. 

He  was  tired  of  spending  his  money  on 
those  who  cared  nothing  for  him.  He  had 
come  to  an  age  when  a  man  wants  to  be 
master  of  his  own  house,  with  his  wife  by  his 
side  and  his  child  at  her  breast.  He  had 
done  spending  his  energies  and  affections  upon 
heartless  idlers  ;  he  wanted  to  concentrate  his 
devotion  upon  some  one  who  loved  him  as 
well.  Who  was  capable  of  loving  him  with 
such  self-abnegation  as  Mercy  ?  He  would 
be  a  god  to  her  if  she  loved  him.  He  knew 
it.     But — did  she  love  him  .'* 

If  she  truly  loved  him,  why  was  she  so 
ashamed  to  let  him  look  into  her  heart  and  see 
all  ?  Her  heart  was  so  chaste,  she  need  not 
have  been  ashamed  of  it. 

Poor  Mercy  !  Alas,  wandering  about  the 
familiar  marshes,  her  lagging  steps  led  her  no- 
where ;  and  so  surely  does  any  powerful  emo- 
tion make  us  react  upon  our  accustomed 
selves  that  she,  whose  self-abnegation  had 
been  almost  ideal,  felt  as  if  doing  good  was  a 
dead-and-gone  possibility.  She  even  talked  to 
herself — laughing — practising  little  devices  to 
amuse  her  father  on  his  return,  that  he  might 
not  discover  her  secret. 

All  this  time  the  Captain  was  at  a  second- 
rate  hotel  down  near  the  docks,  with  his  hat 


J  A  CK  O'DOON. 


241 


cocked  on  the  back  of  his  head,  his  spectacles 
shoved  up  against  the  rim,  his  big,  smooth  red 
face  wreathed  in  smiles,  bragging  about  the 
new  brig  ;  while  a  crowd  of  familiar  acquaint- 
ances, to  whom  he  was  standing  treat,  sat 
round  a  table  with  glasses  of  hot  grog  per- 
petually refilled. 

Jack  was  there  too,  echoing  the  praises  of 
the  ship,  until  the  old  skipper  slapped  him  on 
the  back  and  swore  that  he  was  the  happiest 
boy  in  Richmond  town. 

The  next  morning  Abercrombie  passed  for 
the  pink  of  prosperity  as  he  walked  about  the 
streets  and  was  congratulated  upon  his  return 
to  the  city.  When  he  reached  his  mother's 
door  he  let  himself  in  and  sought  her  un- 
announced. Some  hours  afterwards  he  came 
out  again,  but  there  was  something  different 
in  his  mien  and  the  decision  with  which  he 
stepped  upon  the  pavement. 

He  had  endeavored  to  make  a  confidante  of 

his  mother,  and,  although  his  confessions  had 

,  been  received  with  good  nature,  the  half-ban- 

'  tering  ridicule  with  which  she  had  spoken  of 

Mercy,    of    the    old    Captain,   who,  she   had 

heard,   "  swallowed    knives  like   an   ostrich," 

and  of  the  preposterousness  of  the  whole  idea, 

forced  Algie  to  take  his  ground  precipitately, 

perhaps,   but  resolutely,  and   for  life.     There 

had  been   no  hard  words  on  either  side,  but 

his  mother  realized  with  dismay  that  he  really 

loved   the  girl,   and   that  he    meant  to  merit 

Mercy's  confidence. 

x6 


242 


7 A  CK  O'DOON. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

HE  premature  summer  put  new  life 
into  all  nature  at  Cassandra.  Floods 
of  sunshine  poured  upon  the  sea 
until  it  glowed  like  one  of  Turner's 
pictures,  but  the  broad  stripes  of  ruby  and 
sapphire  did  not  rouse  Mercy  from  the  leth- 
argy into  which  she  had  fallen.  Even  as  a 
child  she  had  been  absent,  as  if  self-mesmer- 
ized, with  her  eyes  fixed  vacantly  and  her 
mind  far  away  ;  but  now  her  brain  was 
focussed  upon  one  thought,  and  that  thought 
was  Abercrombie.  He  was  lonely  amid  the 
distractions  of  a  city  ;  how  much  more  lonely 
was  she,  bound  by  the  monotony  of  her  life  to 
the  perpetual  repetition  of  trivial  acts,  each 
one  of  which  was  inseparable  from  her  recol- 
lections of  him. 

That  memory  was  more  persistent  than  her 
own  shadow  :  waking,  she  thought  of  him, 
sleeping,  she  dreamed  of  him.  The  pain  in 
her  side  was  incessant,  and  food  became  ab- 
horrent to  her. 

Aunt  Polly,  preoccupied  with  her  religion, 
did  not  observe  that  Mercy's  color  was  fading 
and   her   cheeks   sinking.     Antonio  watched 


JACK  O'DOON.  243 

his  young  mistress  in  silence,  and  his  heart 
ached  for  her. 

The  fishermen  shook  their  heads  with  mis- 
giving. "  Somethin's  a-ailin'  our  Mercy," 
they  would  say  to  one  another,  as  they  saw 
her  follow  her  rounds  languidly.  They  felt 
that  the  light  upon  their  paths  was  dim. 
No  one  dared  speak  of  it  to  the  Captain. 
"She's  a-foUerin'  her  mother,"  some  said, 
pointing  to  the  graveyard  and  sighing. 

But  the  Captain,  blind  in  his  fullness  of 
generosity,  rejoiced  with  the  joy  of  a  bene- 
factor. He  was  abounding  in  satisfaction  at 
the  pleasure  he  was  giving  Mercy  through 
Jack,  and  had  no  eyes  for  the  blue  veins  in 
her  temples  nor  the  thinness  of  her  lower  eye- 
lids ;  neither  did  he  observe  how  often  she 
pressed  her  hand  upon  her  heart. 

Antonio  saw  it  and  was  as  silent  as  the 
grave.  To  none  other  than  Mercy  would  he 
speak.  Should  he  speak  to  her  ?  What 
could  he  do  to  help  her  if  he  did  speak  ? 
But  at  night,  when  Splugen  and  Bill  Junk 
were  sleeping  their  profound  and  healthy 
sleep,  the  little  wizened  old  man  would  steal 
from  his  bed  and  get  down  on  his  knees  in 
the  corner,  dimly  lighted  by  the  floating  taper 
which  burned  of  late  before  the  image  of 
"  Our  Lady,"  and  pray  to  God  and  invoke  the 
Saints  and  bribe  the  Blessed  Virgin  with  the 
promise  of  innumerable  worldly  goods.  These 
he  offered  to  Her  honor  for  the  consolation  of 
the  distressed  and  the  glory  of  Her  dear  Son, 


244  JACK  O'DOON. 

if  in  the  pity  of  Her  heart  she  would  intercede 
for  him  that  his  prayers  might  be  answered 
— that  Mercy,  the  joy  of  the  house  and  the 
angel  of  the  poor,  might  be  made  happy 
again,  as  she  used  to  be.  Then  he  would 
cover  the  battered  crucifix  with  kisses,  his 
withered  lips  trembling  the  while  ;  and  again, 
when  despair  seized  him  and  earthly  comfort 
seemed  of  no  avail,  he  would  cry  out :  "  O  my 
Jesu  !  give  her  Thy  heart  as  a  pledge  of  Thy 
love,  as  a  place  of  refuge,  wherein  she  may 
find  a  secure  repose  during  life,  and  a  sweet 
comfort  in  the  hour  of  death  !  Amen."  The 
despair  of  this  thought  would  overpower  him, 
and  he  would  weep  in  anguish,  bowing  him- 
self upon  the  board  floor.  Then  he  would 
creep  noiselessly  back  to  his  bed,  hoping  for 
the  best. 

One  day  Splugen  brought  a  little  flat  pack- 
age from  the  express-office.  Antonio  fetched 
it  to  Mercy.  She  recognized  Algie's  hand- 
writing, and  trembled  with  such  strange  ex- 
citement that  Antonio  took  it  from  her  and 
cut  the  cord.  It  contained  a  parcel  of  his 
sketches,  a  water-color  box,  and  some  direc- 
tions for  sketching  simple  objects.  It  filled 
her  with  a  delight  of  which  Algie  could  not 
have  dreamed.  There  was  neither  message 
nor  address.  She  could  not  thank  him,  but  it 
seemed  to  comfort  her  to  know  that  he  had 
thought  of  her.  When  he  had  arranged  the 
package  he  had  pictured  her  wandering  about 
the  marshes,  trying   with  characteristic    per- 


JACK  O'DOON.  245 

severance  to  lay  in  bits  of  sky  and  water. 
She  seized  upon  the  suggestion.  Abandoning 
her  books  as  companions  on  the  sands,  she 
wandered  no  more  like  a  young  philosopher, 
with  an  essay  closed  over  her  fingers,  and  her 
mind  full  of  the  thoughts  it  had  suggested. 
Hope  awoke  in  her  breast,  and  she  exerted 
herself  once  more  to  be  absorbingly  interested 
in  the  most  trivial  incidents  about  her.  She 
went  more  frequently  to  see  Granny  Gooch, 
and  forced  herself  to  listen  to  her  whinings. 
Even  such  maunderings  were  better  than  the 
gloom  of  her  own  thoughts.  When  the  May 
calms  came  she  read  every  afternoon  to  the 
children,  and,  the  wind  being  lulled  and  the 
sea  still,  only  the  lapping  of  the  ground-swell 
accompanied  her  voice.  But  even  the  children 
felt  that  there  was  a  meekness  about  her 
which  was  different  from  the  independence  of 
her  old  manner. 

Granny  Gooch  became  ashamed  of  com- 
plaining when  Mercy  made  no  reply. 

Things  went  their  way  till,  one  bright  day 
in  June,  Jack  came  home.  The  brig  was 
ready.  He  had  brought  her  down  the  river 
on  a  trial  trip,  and  all  were  to  go  and  inspect 
her  as  she  lay  in  a  little  bay  not  far  from  Cas- 
sandra. 

They  arose  early  to  avoid  the  heat.  The 
old  gray  horse  was  hitched  to  a  small  wagon, 
end  the  Captain  spread  himself  upon  the  front 
seat,  while  Aunt  Polly  and  Mercy  occupied 
the  second.     Mother   Margery  had  been  in- 


246  JACK  O'DOON. 

vited,  but  at  the  last  moment  declined  going-, 
for  she  shrank  painfully  from  Jack's  farther 
seafaring.  She  constantly  looked  to  the  tree- 
tops,  far  inland,  and  sighed  to  abandon  her 
cabin  and  the  wreck-strewn  shore. 

Antonio  kept  the  house.  Bill  Junk  and 
Splugen  followed  the  wagon  on  foot,  while 
Jack  walked  beside  it,  with  his  hand  on  the 
rail,  and  his  eyes  from  time  to  time  wandering 
to  Mercy's  face.  There  was  a  strange  look 
there  which  puzzled  him,  and  he  wondered 
more  and  more  what  it  meant. 

The  girl,  nevertheless,  was  making  merry 
about  the  new  ship,  and  talking  to  him  as  if 
life  were  a  fairy-tale.  But  she  was  much  too 
merry  for  Jack.  He  knew  it  was  all  a  pre- 
tence :  he  had  been  merry  lately  himself. 
The  Mercy  of  old  would  have  been  quiet 
under  the  importance  of  the  event,  and  have 
dreaded  his  going  to  sea  again.  That  morn- 
ing, on  the  contrary,  she  was  bantering  and 
facetious,  and  it  annoyed  him — he  could 
scarcely  tell  why.  He  wished  she  were  silent 
and  thoughtful,  for  he  did  not  feel  merry  ;  and 
her  gaiety  had  something  pathetic  about  it. 
When  Mercy  laughed,  involuntarily  he  felt 
like  weeping.  He  had  learned  that  it  was  a 
serious  thing  to  go  to  sea  and  be  responsible 
for  the  lives  and  sufferings  of  other  men. 

"  So  you  reconciled  yourself  to  the  name 
I  chose,  after  all,  did  you.  Jack  ?  "  said  she, 
smiling  at  him  :  he  had  been  looking  so  sol- 
emnly at  her. 


JACK  O'DOON.  247 

"  Yes,"  said  Jack. 

"  Why  didn't  you  like  it  at  first  ?  The 
'  Pansy  '  sounds  quite  original,"  said  she. 

"  I  fear  it  savors  a  little  of  the  Johnny 
Jump-up  !  " 

Mercy  looked  astonished  at  hearing-  Jack 
make  a  pun.  "  I  had  thought  of  it  rather  as 
a  heart's-ease  to  you,  Jack,"  she  said,  with 
such  a  tender  inflection  in  her  voice  that  he 
started. 

There  was  a  helpless  look  of  appeal  in 
Mercy's  eyes  when  they  met  his.  It  reminded 
him  of  the  pink  curlew  which  had  fallen  at 
his  feet,  and  he  felt  an  unintelligible  but 
gloomy  presentiment  arise  in  his  mind.  What 
was  hurting  her  ?  Surely  there  was  a  wound 
somewhere  which  he  could  not  see.  W^hy 
should  she  be  so  anxious  to  give  him  the 
ship  ? — for  he  knew  very  well  that  she  had  per- 
suaded her  father  to  do  it — and  why  had  she 
so  insisted  upon  naming  it  for  the  flower  with 
this  complexity  of  names  ?  A  "Pansy"  that 
should  be  a  "  Heart's-ease "  to  him,  and 
"  Johnny  Jump-up  "  to  signalize  his  promotion. 
It  was  at  once  pathetic  and  comical. 

Did  she  think  she  was  going  to  die  of  that 
pain  in  her  heart  ?  Jack  shuddered  at  the 
thought.  Then  it  occurred  to  him  that  she 
wished  his  ambition  to  supplant  his  love. 

He  continued  to  walk  in  silence,  with  his 
eyes  fixed  upon  the  ground.  What  was  the 
meaning  of  that  tone  of  tenderness  which 
could  only  have  been  generated  by  suffering  ? 


248  JACK  O' DOOM. 

Was  she  pitying  him  ?  Alas  !  it  seemed  the 
sympathy  of  one  in  despair. 

Was  Mercy's  heart  yearning  as  sadly  for 
another  as  his  yearned  for  her  ?  Who  was 
that  other  ?  He  could  think  of  none  but 
Abercrombie,  and  the  more  he  thought  of  it 
the  more  natural  it  seemed  to  him  that  Mercy 
should  love  so  accomplished  and  attractive  a 
man.  Thinking  of  Algie,  Jack  despised  him- 
self. He  felt  as  if  he  were  the  great  rough- 
hewn  block  of  a  statue,  and  Algie  was  the 
finished  work.  Thus  thinking,  he  looked 
again  at  Mercy. 

She  had  forgotten  him,  forgotten  Aunt 
Polly,  grim  and  severe  beside  her  ;  forgotten 
her  father,  big  and  prosperous  and  imposing 
before  her  ;  forgotten  the  fair  blue  sky  above, 
and  the  white  sands  beneath  her  feet ;  for- 
gotten the  Carolina  turtle-doves  cooing  in  the 
bushes,  and  the  masts  of  the  brig  in  the  dis- 
tance ;  forgotten  the  whole  world,  and  allowed 
the  pain  to  creep  out  and  paint  itself  in  gray 
lines  upon  her  face  ;  and  Jack,  who  loved  her 
so,  who  might  have  been  so  happy  that  day  if 
he  had  not  loved  her,  was  compelled  to  keep 
silence,  trying  to  think  out,  with  so  few  pre- 
mises, what  it  could  all  be  about.  Because  he 
was  so  certain,  by  the  intuition  of  a  fellow- 
feeling,  that  Algie  loved  her,  it  did  not  seem 
possible  it  could  have  come  from  a  want  of 
that  love. 

She  suddenly  remembered  herself,  looked 
at  Jack  uneasily,  and  met  his   eyes   (those  big 


JACK  O'DOOM.  249 

brown  eyes  with  a  hot  fire  glowing-  in  them), 
and  spiritually  crouched  before  him  like  a 
guilty  thing.  \ 

She  struggled  to  seem  indifferent,  but  the 
st'-uggle  was  too  visible.  She  had  made  the 
effort  valiantly,  and  the  pathetic  failure  was 
more  pitiful  to  Jack  than  any  amount  of 
weeping  or  complaining. 

He  saw  it  was  a  sorrow  he  could  never 
hope  to  heal  by  himself,  but  he  might  find  a 
means  to  do  so  through  the  instrumentality 
of  another.  Could  he  devise  a  means  to  reach 
that  other  ? 

He  recalled  the  morning,  two  months  ago, 
when  he  had  told  Mercy  the  story  of  the 
wreck  ;  how  he  had  said  to  her  that  he  believed 
he  could  die  for  her,  or  die  even  to  save  the 
life  of  a  man  she  loved,  if  he  thought  it  would 
be  the  means  of  making  her  happy.  Could  he 
not  now  throw  himself  into  the  breach  and 
mend  the  rent  between  them  ? 

Could  she  be  happy  if  he,  Jack,  were  dead 
or  gone  ?  That  possibility  was  more  bitter 
than  the  thought  of  death,  for  Jack  stood  in  no 
great  fear  of  death. 

He  looked  at  her  again  ;  and  again  she  had 
forgotten  him  ;  forgotten  him  this  day,  the  last 
for  many  weeks  which  they  should  spend  to- 
gether. The  longing  from  which  she  could 
not  escape  possessed  her,  and  Jack  realized 
that  he  was  outside  of  her  life,  of  that  secret 
inner  life  which  is  as  lonely  as  the  soul  at 
death. 


2  CO  JACK  O' BOON. 

They  were  entering  the  long  town  skirti.ig 
the  water.  A  confusion  of  masts  and  tangled 
cordage  edged  the  shore,  and  hundreds  of 
little  boats  were  gently  rocking  in  the  hollows 
of  the  waves.  The  waters  of  the  bay  were 
like  a  sheet  of  pale  green  glass,  transparently 
beautiful.  A  rosy  mist  hung  over  the  sea. 
But  neither  Jack  nor  Mercy  seemed  to  be 
alive  to  the  beauty  of  the  day.  Jack  had  hoped 
to  be  glad,  and,  instead,  his  heart  was  heavier 
than  before  ;  Mercy's  heart  ached  because  she 
hoped  for  nothing  at  all.  It  did  not  seem 
possible  to  her  that  Algie  could  care  for  her, 
when  he  must  be  constantly  meeting  dozens 
of  women  much  more  finished  and  charming. 
Could  he  possibly  cherish  one  thought  of  her 
among  her  rough  people  ?  They  seemed 
rough  to  her  now.  She  missed  him  and  felt 
the  contrast. 

The  Captain  was  in  a  gale  of  high  spirits, 
and  had  a  joke  for  every  old  tar  on  the  wharf. 

Mercy  and  Jack  exerted  themselves  to  make 
the  day  go  off  merrily. 

The  "  Pansy's  "  boat  came  off  with  feather- 
ing oars  and  took  them  all  out  to  the  brig, 
Splugen  crowded  in  the  full  hampers  for  the 
day's  repast,  and  when  the  boat  touched,  the 
Captain  climbed  the  rope-ladder  over  the 
brig's  sides.  Aunt  Polly  followed,  assisted  by 
Splugen.     Jack  and  Mercy  went  after  them. 

The  shadow  of  the  flag  fell  upon  the  deck. 
•'  Long   may   she    wave  !  "   said    Jack. 

The  "  Pansy  "  was  not  less  beautiful  than  her 


JACK  O'DOON.  251 

name.  The  sun  gleamed  on  her  yellow  decks, 
and  glinted  amid  the  shadows  of  the  shrouds 
on  her  masts,  and  flashed  as  if  meteors  were 
imprisoned  in  the  galley  rails,  and  the  brass 
knobs  of  the  companion-way  ;  the  compass- 
box  defied  the  sun  itself  for  splendor,  and 
radiant  in  blueness,  like  a  hollow  sapphire, 
glowed  the  sky,  and  dazzling  as  an  emerald 
was  the  sea. 

Jack  and  Mercy,  leaning  over  the  bulwarks, 
watched  the  sailors  haul  up  the  boat  and 
swing  it  over  the  revolving  davits. 

Mercy  became  so  enlivened  with  the  bustle 
that  she  forgot  her  wretchedness,  and  after 
a  while,  sitting  down  upon  a  coil  of  rope, 
watched  the  bowsprit  rock  this  way  and  that, 
amid  the  entanglement  of  spars  and  cordage, 
until  she  became  dizzy  herself. 

The  scene  and  the  thought  of  Jack's  pros- 
perity had  undoubtedly  wrought  a  temporary 
change  in  her  feelings,  and  Jack  himself,  who 
reflected  Mercy's  moods,  felt  the  contrast. 
A  delirious  wish  formed  in  his  mind.  What 
a  glad  life  it  would  be  to  have  Mercy  at  his 
side,  and  roam  with  her  the  far  and  lonely 
seas,  in  delicious  isolation  ;  her  true  heart 
forever  near  his  breast,  that  thus,  all  and  all 
to  each  other,  they  might  live  and  die, 

Alas,  he  was  mad  with  a  folly  all  his  own  ! 
But  he  was  happy  for  one  day  with  his  desire 
fulfilled  ;  and  Mercy  looked  at  him  with  pleas- 
ure in  her  eyes,  satisfied  to  think  that  he  was 
pleased  with  the  ship. 


252  JACK  O' DOOM. 

The  day  was  all  too  short.  Jack  would 
have  riveted  the  sun  in  the  top  of  the  sky  if 
he  could,  that  it  might  never  go  down  ;  but 
slowly  it  sank  lower  and  lower.  A  breeze 
had  sprung  up  ;  there  could  be  no  excuse  to 
keep  them  over  night  on  board  ;  and  the 
time  came  for  the  Captain  to  gather  up  his 
people  and  depart,  after  wishing  Jack  "  God- 
speed." 

Aunt  Polly  and  Splugen  were  already 
climbing  over  the  bulwarks,  with  a  mixture 
of  grotesque  gallantry  and  antique  feminine 
coquettishness.  One  must  admit  it  takes 
very  pretty  feet,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  to  climb 
a  rope-ladder  down  the  side  of  a  ship,  and 
drop  off  into  a  boat  on  the  swell  of  the  sea. 

The  Captain  was  already  in  the  boat,  hav- 
ing set  himself  for  ballast,  but  Jack  and  Mercy 
were  still  below  in  the  cabin  of  the  brig.  Per- 
haps Jack  had  timed  it  so. 

Mercy  was  taking  her  last  look  around. 
The  narrow  doors  to  the  bunks  on  either  side 
were  closed.  The  ugly  little  black  stove 
crouched  in  the  corner  beamed  with  leaden 
lustre,  the  table  at  one  side  was  covered  with 
a  red  cloth,  the  pale  green  walls  ornamented 
with  a  golden  rod,  the  hanging-lamp  ready 
to  be  lighted,  and  the  book-case,  in  another 
corner,  filled  with  books.  Ah  !  Mercy  would 
never  forget  that  scene,  nor  Jack  standing 
before  her, — his  face  glowing  with  color,  his 
profusion  of  chestnut  hair,  his  gently  arched 
black  eyebrows,  his  eloquent  eyes  timid  with 


JACK  O'DOON.  253 

an  unuttered  wish,  all  were  impressed  upon 
her  memory  forever. 

"  Mercy,  I  hate  so  for  you  to  leave  me," 
said  he,  taking  her  hand  with  the  familiarity 
which  had  existed  between  them  since  their 
childhood.  "Won't  you  tell  me  what  troubles 
you  before  you  go  ? — before  I  go  ?  Surely 
there  is  something  hurting  you  deeply,  and 
you  are  keeping  it  back  from  me.  It  is  be- 
cause you  can't  understand  me,  Mercy.  You 
don't  know  how  utterly  I  love  you — how  all 
that  the  world  holds  of  joy  or  happiness  or 
life  are  locked  up  in  you.  Sometimes  I  wish 
I  had  never  come  back,  I  should  have  been 
spared  so  much.  I  should  have  lost  this 
happy  day,  but  also  this  unutterable  pain  of 
separation,  for  it  is  like  tearing  my  soul  out 
of  my  body  ;  and  the  hardest  part  of  all  is  to 
leave  you  suffering.  To  feel  that  a  sorrow 
which  is  your  own  has  come  between  us.  If 
it  were  joy  it  would  not  be  so  hard.  Tell  me. 
Oh,  tell  me,  my  darling,  what  it  is  ?  " 

But  Mercy  listened  without  moving  or 
speaking.  Jack  still  held  her  hand.  It  was 
pulseless  and  cold.  He  waited  in  pleading 
silence,  but  her  lips  were  rigid.  She  looked 
at  him.  There  was  infinite  trust  in  her  eyes, 
but  it  was  impossible  for  her  to  speak. 

"  You  will  not  tell  me  ;  you  used  to  tell  me 
everything,"  he  said,  regretfully. 

"  Oh,  Jack,  I  cannot  tell.     I  do  not  know." 

He  paused  a  moment  hesitating.  At  last  he 
said,  "  But  I  know,  Mercy,  and  I  am  certain 


254  JACK  O'DOON. 

that  he  loves  you  ;  and  I  swear  to  you  it  shall 
all  come  right.  You  know  my  superstition 
that  I  was  saved  from  the  wreck  to  save  you 
from  something  ;  God  only  knows  what,  but 
if  you  will  trust  me,  I  will  do  it;  and  I  will 
find  a  way  to  make  you  happy.  I  hear  them 
calling  ;  let  me  kiss  you  good-bye  as  I  always 
have  done,  once  more,  only  once  more,  dear 
Mercy.  I  promise  you  I  will  make  you  happy 
at  any  cost,  if  I  must  die  to  do  it." 

Without  waiting  her  denial,  he  put  his  lov- 
ing arm  around  her  and  kissed  her  tenderly, 
as  if  she  had  been  a  sacred  thing,  and  then 
sprang  through  the  companion-way,  and  was 
gone. 

But  her  heart  stood  still,  and  her  cheeks 
burned  red  because  he  kissed  her.  Never 
till  that  moment  had  she  realized  her  self- 
consecration  to  another,  and  she  trembled 
with  such  agitation  that  she  clung  to  the  rail 
to  support  herself. 

Jack  returned  to  the  skylight  and  called 
her,  but  she  shrank  from  his  gaze  when  they 
met.  He  was  holding  her  hand  to  steady  her 
over  the  bulwark  :  "  Dear  Mercy,  forgive  m€, 
I  love  you  so,"  he  whispered  ;  and  as  she 
looked  at  him  she  saw  the  same  look  in  his 
eyes  that  had  been  in  Algie's  own,  that  last 
day  in  May  when  she  had  fled  from  him. 
Jack's  words  had  told  the  meaning  of  it.  '♦  / 
love  you  so"  he  said. 

At  the  wharf  Jack  left  them,  after  a  linger- 
ing "  Good-bye,"    and    many    times    repeated 


JACK  O' DOOM.  255 

"  God    bless   you,"  and  "  Luck    to    ye,"   was 
shouted  after  him  across  the  water. 

They  watched  the  sailors  hoist  the  boat,  and 
swing  it  up,  and  lash  it  over  the  poop,  heard 
the  grating  of  the  chains  as  they  weighed 
anchor,  heard  Jack's  voice  in  command,  and 
Mercy  forgot,  for  the  moment,  the  tones  of  the 
lover,  as  she  heard  him  ordering  his  men  to 
and  fro.  They  saw  the  mainsail  unfurled  and 
the  gaff  hoisted  high,  and  the  white  canvas 
spread  on  the  breeze.  There  was  a  light  wind, 
and  all  the  square  sails  and  jibs  too  were  put 
out. 

The  "  Pansy  "  toyed  with  the  water,  rocking 
to  and  fro,  as  if  coquetting  with  her  image  in 
a  glass,  and  then  she  moved  just  a  little,  very 
slowly,  her  sails  rounding  more  and  more, 
until  they  shifted  the  tack,  and  she  glided 
suddenly  away  like  a  beautiful,  home-loving 
bird,  with  her  white  wings  spread.  The 
crowd  on  the  shore  cheered  and  waved.  All 
the  villagers  were  there,  and  they  waved  and 
cheered,  and  waved  again  !  The  Captain 
pulled  out  his  great  red  handkerchief  and 
flung  it  at  arm's  length.  Jack,  although  so 
brave,  dropped  his  arm  in  terror.  Who 
knows  what  he  thought,  but  it  was  a  blood- 
red  flag  over  Mercy's  head.  He  had  all  a 
sailor's  superstitions.  He  knew  no  fear  of 
realities  which  he  could  fight,  but  of  the 
unseen,  unknown,  unconquerable,  he  had  a 
nameless  dread. 

The  Captain  saw  the  sudden  dropping  of 


2r6  JACK  O'DOON. 

Jack's  arm,  and  after  a  moment  he  wiped  his 
brow  in  perplexity  and  shook  his  head  grave- 
ly, saying  :  "  Well,  I'll  be  damned  !  " 

I  fear  the  recording  angel,  who  wept  over 
Uncle  Toby's  oath,  would  make  a  blistered 
page  of  the  Captain's  long  account.  lean  but 
think  that  the  milk  of  human  kindness,  which 
came  ever  welling  from  his  good  old  heart, 
must  have  washed  out  all  the  venom  ere  the 
many  bad  words  he  uttered  escaped  his  un- 
guarded lips. 

"  He's  afeard  o'  your  red  handkercher  ! " 
said  an  old  tar,  touching  the  Captain's  arm. 

"  Good  Lord,  man,"  cried  the  Captain, 
amazed,  "  what's  there  to  be  afeard  o'  in 
that !  " 

But  Splugen  supplied  him  with  a  table- 
cloth, and  they  all  joined  hands  on  it,  and 
waved  and  shouted  till  the  vessel  was  too  far 
away  to  answer  their  signals,  and  they  were 
forced  to  desist. 

A  little  later  they  were  plodding  along 
over  the  sands  by  the  way  they  had  come. 
Jack  was  gone.  The  new  brig  was  no  fiction  ; 
the  day  was  done  ;  and  Mercy  went  home, 
more  silent  than  before. 


J  A  CK  O'DOON. 


257 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

HEN  Algie  returned  to  his  studio, 
after  the  interview  with  his  mother, 
the  gentleman  of  fashion  and  ele- 
gant leisure  was  left  outside,  and 
only  the  natural  man  entered,  prepared  to 
grapple  with  his  difficulties  and  vanquish 
them. 

His  mind,  habituated  to  commenting  coldly 
upon  his  emotions,  wondered  at  the  power 
which  had  arisen  in  his  breast,  and  demanded 
co-operation  from  itself. 

Was  Algie  a  hero  after  all  ?  Did  he 
truly  wish  to  put  aside  the  temptations  of  the 
world,  its  adulation,  which  more  than  all 
things  he  had  loved,  its  luxury  and  thought- 
less ease  ? 

To  what  purpose  ? 

He  sat  thinking  for  a  few  moments  ;  then 
he  opened  his  bills,  looked  over  the  items, 
added  them  up,  separately  and  in  toto  ;  and 
finally  revolved  in  his  mind  the  various  pos- 
sible means  of  paying  them. 

"  I  shall  go  into  exile,"  said  he  with  a  sigh, 
which  seemed  rather  of  relief,  as  of  a  resolute 
man  who  has  his  enemy  at  last,  and  considers 
how  to  dispose  of  him. 
17 


258  JACK  O' BOON. 

The  sum  of  money  was  large  relatively. 
He  could  not  go  to  his  mother  for  help.  She 
would  have  the  right  to  laugh  at  him — though 
she  had  often  before  paid  dearly  for  that 
privilege. 

He  took  out  his  pocket-book  containing  the 
check  which  the  Captain  had  given  him. 
There  was  something  in  the  big,  ignorant 
signature  which  smote  his  heart.  How  could 
he  use  it  as  a  thing  of  trade,  or  take  pay  in 
any  form,  for  the  dear  pleasure  of  painting 
Mercy's  portrait  !  It  seemed  like  money  ob- 
tained upon  a  false  pretext.  He  looked  at 
the  bills  again. 

They  had  not  shrunk. 

"  Five  bouquets  at  five  dollars  each  !  "  he 
ejaculated.  "  Dance  with  a  girl  that  you  care 
nothing  about,  pay  five  dollars  for  her  flowers, 
and  feel  all  the  time  that  she  is  measuring 
you  by  their  merits,  and  not  for  your  own." 
Had  he  really  ever  loved  any  woman  before 
to  the  intrinsic  value  of  a  dozen  cut  roses  or 
one  orchid  .'' 

He  had  never  offered  Mercy  a  flower  ;  but  he 
loved  her  ;  he  felt  certain  of  it.  He  measured 
his  love,  not  by  etiquette,  but  by  the  sacrifices 
he  was  willing  to  make  for  it. 

"  One  dozen  China  silk  handkerchiefs,  name 
embroidered  in  white,"  he  continued.  "  Of 
course  they  might  have  been  marked  in  ink, 
but  that  is  so  vulgar  and  conspicuous." 

"  Three  baskets  of  champagne — one  hun- 
dred and  five  dollars.     To  be  sure  !  "     That 


JACK  O'DOON.  259 

was  for  his  New-Year  supper.  They  had  had  a 
gorgeous  time  unquestionably,  and  one  fellow, 
happier  than  the  rest,  had  stood  on  his  head 
upon  th"  table  ;  and  all  had  finished  by  hold- 
ing each  other's  coat-tails,  and  singing  glorious 
songs,  marching  around  the  festive  board. 
He  had  had  enough  of  that  sort  of  thing. 

There  had  been  no  bills  since  he  went  to 
Cassandra.  It  was  the  31st  of  March,  he 
remembered.  On  that  day  the  tide  of  his  life 
had  turned.  By  a  singular  coincidence,  Jack's 
life  had  been  in  deadly  peril  upon  the  same 
day. 

Algie  got  up  and  walked  the  floor. 

A  great  desire  seized  him  to  go  to  the  old 
Captain,  and  fling  himself  into  his  bountiful 
heart,  as  if  it  had  been  a  gulf,  full,  like  the  sea, 
of  goodness  and  generosity,  and  say  to  the 
listening  compassion  which  should  encompass 
him  :  "  Forgive  me.  I  love  your  child,  your 
darling.  Consider  my  past  delinquencies,  but 
also  my  temptations.  Help  me,  care  for  me, 
even  feed  me,  until  I  can  pay  my  debts  out  of 
my  income,  and  I  will  do  all  I  can  for  you  in 
return  !  "  ! 

Alas  !  He  stood  on  his  pride  and  rejected 
the  thought. 

If  he  had  done  so,  the  Captain  would  have 
taken  down  his  spectacles  and  looked  at  him, 
have  grumbled  a  little,  which  was  his  only 
privilege,  and  then  he  would  have  flourished 
the  red  handkerchief  and  considered  ;  and, 
finally,    would    have     taken    Algie    into    the 


26o  JACK  O'DOON. 

securest  nook  of  the  great  heart,  and  ^have 
anchored  him  there  alongside  of  Mercy. 
And  then  he  would  have  treated  him  like  a 
superior  being,  and  have  bragged  about  him, 
as  he  did  about  everything  he  loved  and 
doted  on.  And  Mercy,  save  for  her  sympathy 
in  Jack's  disappointment,  would  have  been 
happy. 

But  Algie  was  too  much  of  a  man  to  do  any 
such  childish  thing  ;  so,  full  of  his  conceit, 
he  got  a  large  atlas  and  looked  at  a  little  dot 
marked  "  Cassandra  Bay." 

He  meant  to  lock  up  these  unhome-like 
rooms,  and  go  somewhere  to  sketch  and 
economize.  He  would  buckle  himself  down 
to  hard  work  ;  and,  by  the  compensation  of 
labor,  lose  his  natural  desire  for  amusement. 
He  would  begin  afar  off — but  Blessington 
House  should  be  the  ultimate  goal  of  his 
pilgrimage. 

He  concluded  to  borrow  money  upon  col- 
lateral to  pay  his  debts,  and  then  go  and  grind 
for  weeks  and  months,  if  need  be,  until  the 
amount  should  be  refunded.  He  would  not 
attempt  to  possess  himself  of  the  luxury  of  a 
wife  until  his  debts  were  paid. 

He  ignored  the  fact  that  the  luxury  he  was 
denying  himself  was  a  human  being,  capable 
of  intensest  suffering  and  disappointment,  and 
also  of  paying  the  debts.       , 

The  day  before  he  left  to  enter  into  his 
penitential  exile,  he  had  sent  Mercy  the  pack- 
age of  sketches  and  notes,  but  not  a  word  of 


JACK  O'DOON.  261 

explanation  or  kindness.  He  had,  it  is  true, 
written  a  few  words  to  Aunt  Polly,  as  the 
mistress  of  Blessington  House,  thanking  her 
for  her  kindness  during  his  stay  there,  but  to 
Mercy  he  had  not  sent  a  line. 

As  the  days  followed  one  another,  Algie, 
full  of  the  sincerity  of  his  intentions,  became 
happier,  and  his  health  was  improved  by  his 
life  in  the  open  air. 

All  day  long  he  dreamed  of  the  home  he 
meant  to  make,  with  Mercy  for  his  bride. 

"  Surely  she  loves  me,"  he  said  to  himself, 
remembering  the  quiver  of  her  lip  and  the 
tears  in  her  eyes  ;  and  moreover  had  she  not 
told  him  that  she  was  "  one  of  those  dreadful 
people  who  never  forget."  She  must  love  him 
still,  for  he  had  done  nought  to  wound  her. 
He  would  not  wound  a  hair  of  her  head.  Was 
there  nothing  to  hurt  her  in  the  silence  which 
he  would  not  vouchsafe  to  explain  ? 

***** 

A  good  many  months  had  passed  in  this 
fashion,  and  October  frost  had  nipped  the 
grass,  browned  the  leaves  of  the  scrub  oaks, 
and  blackened  the  cedars,  ere  Algie  reached 
a  little  village  not  far  from  Cassandra  Bay. 

He  walked  with  the  jaunty  air  and  buoyant 
step  of  a  free  man,  as  he  followed  the  path 
which  meandered  through  the  rushes,  among 
which  the  tide  ponds  gleamed. 

He  could  hear  the  distant  boom  of  the 
ocean,  and  that,  as  well  as  the  smell  of  the 


262  JACK  O' BOON. 

marsh,  brought  back  to  him  the  sunny  April 
days. 

His  heart  beat  with  passionate  expectation, 
and  tears  almost  of  rapture  moistened  his 
eyes  as  the  old  red  walls  of  Blessington  House 
came  in  view.  Never  had  he  been  so  glad  to 
get  anywhere,  or  see  anything,  as  he  felt  at 
sight  of  the  grim  pile  which  stood  out  against 
the  sky  like  a  coastguard  station. 

His  heart  beat  with  a  moment's  uncertainty 
as  he  put  up  his  hand  to  open  the  gate.  He 
found  the  three  sailors  asleep  in  the  garden, 
with  their  chairs  tilted  against  the  wall  of  the 
house. 

Sailor  growled,  but,  upon  recognizing  him, 
wagged  his   tail  and  whined  with  satisfaction. 

The  parrot  screamed  until  she  wakened 
Antonio. 

"At  last,"  said  the  old  man,  upon  perceiv- 
ing Algie,   "  Our  Lady  has  answered  me  !  " 

Algie  shook  hands  with  the  men  all  around. 
They  told  him  that  he  looked  "  oncommon 
well."  Any  picturesque  dress  was  becoming 
to  him  ;  and  the  blue-flannel  shirt,  and  velve- 
teen breeches  belted  with  a  fair  leather  strap, 
showed  his  well-made  figure  to  advantage. 
His  coat  was  hanging  over  his  arm. 

"  Are  the  family  upstairs  ?  "  asked  Algie. 

"  No,  sir,  nobody  but  Miss  Polly,"  answered 
Bill  Junk,  who  was  always  the  loquacious  one 
of  the  three.  "  Miss  Mercy  ain't  bin  peert 
fur  a  good  while,  and  she  an*  the  skipper  is 
gone  out  a-walkin*  down   to  Jack's.     Ef  ye'U 


JACK  O' DOOM.  26? 

jest  step  up  an'  set  a  while,  one  o'  us'll  go 
fetch  em,"  indicating-  Splugen,  who  did  the 
errands  for  the  house. 

"  Oh,  no,  thank  you  !  Not  by  any  means,'' 
cried  Algie,  and  fearing  he  had  been  over- 
heard, he  hurried  out  of  the  gate,  closing  it 
firmly  behind  h.m. 


264  JACK  O'DOON. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

LGIE  enjoyed  the  stiff  breeze,  and 
found  it  bracing  and  pleasant  after 
tils  walk. 
"  Miss  Mercy  ain't  been  peert  late- 
ly," he  repeated  to  himself,  "  but,  she's  off  at 
Jack's  !  Just  what  I  might  have  expected  ! 
Curse  the  luck  of  it !  I  wish  I  had  come  back 
before." 

He  pulled  his  moustache  as  he  sauntered 
along,  scanning  the  distance,  and  listening  for 
voices.  "  It's  chilly  for  her  to  be  out  if  she's 
ill.  I  wonder  the  old  man  takes  so  little  care 
of  her,"  he  mused. 

When  he  arrived  at  the  divergent  path 
which  led  to  Mother  Margery's  cabin,  he  hesi- 
tated. Anxious  as  he  was  to  see  Mercy,  he 
had  some  compunction  about  seeking  her 
under  Jack's  very  roof 

He  stood  vacillating,  kicking  the  sand,  un- 
certain whether  to  follow  that  path  or  another 
which  led  off  to  the  north.  The  latter  was 
obscure  and  unpromising  ;  but,  being  unwill- 
ing that  Jack  should  witness  his  meeting  with 
Mercy,  he  took  it. 

As  he  walked  along,  idly  looking  about  him, 


JACK  O'DOON.  265 

he  was  enraptured  with  the  beauty  of  the 
marshes,  glowing  in  the  sunset  with  many 
luminous  shades  of  green,  while  the  water 
amid  the  grasses  gleamed  with  red  and  pur- 
ple, reflected  from  the  sky. 

When  he  finally  came  out  upon  the  bluff 
overlooking  the  beach,  he  wondered  that 
Mercy  had  never  brought  him  there,  for  it  was 
much  the  most  beautiful  spot  along  the  coast. 
The  sands  were  spaciously  wide  and  flat,  and 
the  bluff"  unusually  high. 

The  tide  was  coming  in  so  fast,  it  would 
not  be  long  ere  the  water  would  cover  the 
broad  stretch  to  the  foot  of  the  cliff. 

There  was  one  place  in  the  sands  which 
seemed  different  from  all  the  rest,  gleaming 
with  silvery  lustre,  while  the  other  sands  were 
rosy,  or  yellow  and  white,  and  v/inding  out 
from  the  cliff  like  a  sullen  serpent  creeping  to 
the  sea. 

This  so  excited  Algie's  curiosity  that  he 
followed  the  bluff  until  he  reached  a  place 
shelving  enough  to  admit  of  his  climbing 
down. 

Having  done  so,  he  walked  along  the  beach, 
crunching:  the  shells  under  his  feet.  The  sea- 
gulls  were  flying  low,  screaming  their  shrill 
good-nights.  As  he  wandered  on,  picking  up 
small  objects  of  interest  here  and  there,  he 
forgot  the  singular  sand  which  he  had  come 
to  examine,  and  advanced  to  meet  the  surf, 
throwing  sticks  into  the  sea  and  watching 
them  sweeping  in  again  amidst  the   foam  on 


266  JACK  O'DOON. 

the  wave's  edge,  which  spread  sideways  like 
the  feathers  on  a  lady's  opening  fan.  Pausing, 
he  watched  the  foam  turn  red  as  it  churned 
up  the  powdered  shells  ;  until,  attempting  to 
move  forward,  he  was  surprised  to  find  that 
his  feet  were  so  heavy  that  it  was  almost  im- 
possible to  lift  them. 

He  bent  all  his  strength  to  lift  his  right  foot ; 
but,  although  he  succeeded,  his  dismay  was 
unutterable  to  find  that  his  other  foot  had 
sunk  much  deeper,  and  that  the  sand  was 
oozing  in  at  his  shoetops. 

"  What  can  be  the  matter?  "  thought  Algie, 
feeling  rather  amused  than  alarmed,  but 
nevertheless  stretching  his  loose  foot  as  far 
back  as  possible  from  the  foam  of  the  advanc- 
ing wave.  But  all  of  a  sudden  there  came  to 
him  the  memory  of  a  chance  allusion  to  the 
quicksand  on  the  North  Beach. 

An  indescribable  horror  blanched  his  face, 
and  made  him  throw  up  his  hands  with  a 
gesture  of  despair. 

Had  he  been  less  panic-stricken,  and  re- 
membered the  silvery  stream  of  talc-like  lus- 
tre which  he  had  come  down  from  the  cliff  to 
investigate,  he  would  have  recollected  how 
narrow  it  was,  as  it  crawled  out  from  the  cliff; 
but  his  presence  of  mind  forsook  him,  and  he 
guided  his  struggling  steps  backward,  instead 
of  sideways,  bewildered  by  the  terror  he  felt 
of  the  rapidly  incoming  tide,  which  was  upon 
him. 

Each  struggling  step  backward  took    him 


lACK  O'DOON.  267 

deeper  into  the  sands,  for  they  were  becom- 
ing slimier  with  the  access  of  the  sea. 

Physically,  Algie  was  not  strong  at  best, 
and  his  entire  body,  already  wet  with  perspi- 
ration from  the  effort  he  was  making,  now 
began  to  relax,  and  spasmodically  the  mus- 
cles refused  to  move.  He  had  a  courageous 
heart,  and,  having  realized  his  extremity,  en- 
deavored to  meet  it  as  nobly  as  he  could.  His 
mind  was  alert,  but  it  became  moment  by 
moment  more  difficult  to  sustain  the  phj^sical 
effort  which  he  was  obliged  to  make.  He 
dared  not  pause,  even  an  instant,  to  look 
around,  for  each  time  that  he  succeeded  in  re- 
leasing one  foot,  the  other  sank  deeper,  and  it 
was  more  difficult  to  withdraw  it.  Moreover, 
he  began  to  realize  that  an  appalling  paraly- 
sis was  overpowering  him. 

At  last  his  strength  was  entirely  gone. 
The  tide  was  rolling  in,  and  the  spray  made 
him  shiver.     He  had  sunk  to  his  knees. 

In  the  agony  of  despair  he  abandoned  his 
efforts  and  looked  about  him.  Not  a  crea- 
ture was  in  sight.  He  felt  that  he  was  being 
sucked  in  slowly,  and  the  tide  was  rising  in- 
evitably ;  but  his  mind  was  more  heroic  than 
he  had  believed  of  himself.  He  would  fight 
for  life,  if  only  enough  of  life  to  fulfil  what  he 
had  left  undone  ;  he  would  tell  INIercy  that  he 
had  not  meant  to  neglect  her  nor  wished  to 
forget  her.  Then  his  conscience  would  be  at 
rest. 

In  this  last  agony  there  seemed  no  hope  for 


268  JACK  O'DOON. 

himself.  He  yelled  for  help,  but  the  wind  was 
blowing  so  hard  it  drowned  his  cries.  He 
struggled  again  and  dragged  his  legs  some 
way  along,  for  the  sand  was  a  little  looser 
than  at  first.  Then  he  felt  himself  going 
down,  down,  suddenly  faster.  Everything 
was  giving  way  under  his  feet. 

***** 

Not  long  after  Algie's  departure  from 
Blessington  House,  Mercy  returned,  accom- 
panied by  her  father  and  Jack.  Antonio, 
eager  to  make  her  happy,  was  ready  at  the 
gate  with  the  news  ;  and  Jack,  looking  into 
Mercy's  face,  saw  it  overspread  with  a  glow 
of  ineffable  joy.  It  was  a  death-blow  to 
Jack's  own  hopes,  but  the  sorrow  was  without 
reproach  in  the  kind  look  of  his  eyes,  as  they 
searched  with  inquiry  into  Mercy's  own. 

"  I  will  go  and  fetch  him,"  said  he,  anxious 
to  make  her  happy,  even  at  such  cost  to  him- 
self. 

Had  Algie  been  as  single-hearted  as  poor 
Jack,  he  would  not  now  be  struggling  in  the 
slough  of  such  despair. 

Mercy  blushed  painfully  at  finding  her  heart 
thus  open  to  Jack's  inquiry,  and  turned  away 
abashed,  unable  to  answer  him.  He  was 
about  to  go,  when  he  suddenly  placed  himself 
before  her,  and  with  a  loving  look,  which  she 
never  afterwards  forgot,  took  her  hand  in  his 
and  said  in  a  whisper :  "  Can't  you  believe, 
dear  Mercy,  that  I  love  you  more  than  I  love 
myself?" 


JACK  O'DOON.  269 

Then  he  hurried  out  of  the  'gate  and  across 
the  marshes  to  a  spot  where  three  paths  met. 
When  he  scrutinized  the  freshly-trodden  foot- 
prints, there  was  a  place  where  some  one 
had  halted,  kicking  the  sands  carelessly,  and 
finally  seemed  to  have  turned  to  the  north- 
ward by  the  dangerous  way  which  skirted  the 
bluff  and  edged  the  quicksand. 

Anxiety  made  Jack  hasten,  but  when  he 
reached  the  bluff  and  looked  around,  at  first 
he  saw  nothing  amiss.  The  sun  had  set,  but 
it  was  brightly  light,  for  the  full  moon,  new- 
risen  in  the  east,  flooded  the  beach  with  efful- 
gent splendor. 

He  was  looking  admiringly  up  and  down, 
his  gaze  lingering  upon  the  sweeps  of  sand 
which  glowed  under  the  combined  lights  of 
sunset  and  moonrise,  when  something  at- 
tracted his  attention  moving  in  the  edge  of 
the  foam. 

At  first  he  thought  it  was  a  great  bird — a 
southern  pelican  flapping  its  wings  against  its 
sides.  The  quicksand,  with  its  snake-like 
winding,  gleamed  behind  it.  He  fixed  his 
gaze,  for  the  object  was  indistinct  and  his 
eyes  were  dazed  with  watching  the  moonrise. 
But  all  at  once  he  understood. 

It  was  the  head  and  arms  of  a  human 
being  !  The  sands  had  swallowed  his  body 
and  were  still  sucking  in  the  little  visible  por- 
tion of  the  miserable  creature.  The  tide, 
also,  was  closing  upon  him  with  deadly  cer- 
tainty. 


2'JO  JACK  O'DOON. 

"  My  God  !  "  cried  Jack,  "  the  man  must  be 
the  painter,  who  has  gone  to  his  death — and 
Mercy's  heart  will  break  !  " 

He  sprang  do\vn  the  sand-bluff  and  ran 
across  the  beach. 

Alas  !  what  help  was  there  ?  Not  a  beam, 
nor  rope's  end,  nor  splinter  of  the  debris  the 
waves  were  ever  bringing. 

"  Try  and  keep  moving,"  cried  Jack,  coming 
nearer  to  Algie,  and  searching  madly  for  some- 
thing wherewith  to  reach  him. 

Algie  was  almost  blind  from  exhaustion. 
He  had  sunk  so  low  that  the  sands  were 
pressing  upon  his  breast,  crushing  the  breath 
out  of  him,  and  they  were  driven  by  each  suc- 
cessive breaker  with  the  force  of  a  renewed 
shock.  The  muscles  of  his  chest  could  no 
longer  resist  the  compression.  He  was  as 
one  in  a  mould  which  was  setting. 

When  Jack  called  to  him,  he  had  so  nearly 
lost  consciousness  that  his  interest  in  life  was 
gone  along  with  it.  Jack  dared  not  leave  him 
to  seek  for  help.  In  ten  minutes  the  tide 
would  be  over  his  head  and  all  be  ended  for- 
ever. 

Jack  tore  off  his  clothes  and  tied  them 
together  with  a  sailor's  deftness,  and  flung 
the  end  of  the  line  to  Algie.  But  Algie  could 
not  reach  it ;  he  had  no  strength  left  to  push 
forward,  even  with  such  powerful  help  so  near 
at  hand. 

"  Are  you  still  sinking  ? "  cried  Jack  to 
him. 


JACK  O'DOON,  271 

"  No,  I  think  not,"  replied  Algie  with  diffi- 
culty. 

"  Can't  you  move  a  little  toward  me  ?  Oh, 
try  !  In  a  moment  you  may  be  drowned,  and 
Mercy "  Alas  !  poor  Jack,  he  was  fren- 
zied with  despair  for  her  as  well  as  compassion 
for  Algie.  To  see  almost  within  grasp  a 
human  life  which  in  a  moment  might  be 
annihilated  1 — a  life  which,  Jack  declared  to 
himself,  held  all  of  Mercy  s  happiness.  De- 
spair crazed  him  or  drove  him  to  that  mad- 
ness of  courage  which  puts  a  man  outside  of 
every  instinct  of  self-preservation.    • 

Desperate  for  an  expedient,  he  sought  all 
about  for  some  small  piece  of  wood  even.  At 
last  he  found  a  peg,  and,  going  as  near  to  the 
edge  of  the  quicksand  as  would  bear  his 
weight,  he  pressed  it  firmly  into  the  ground 
and  tied  the  line  of  clothes  to  it. 

Again  he  flung  the  end  of  the  line  to  Algie, 
but  again  it  was  not  long  enough.  Jack  stood 
erect  one  moment  to  think. 

Algie,  revived  by  Jack's  encouragement,  or 
with  a  ruling  passion  strong  in  death,  looked 
with  admiring  eyes  upon  Jack's  body  as  he 
stood  in  the  light  of  the  moon,  distinct  against 
the  evening  sky.  The  figure  of  a  god,  it 
seemed  so  perfect,  his  flesh  luminous,  and 
his  eyes  glowing  with  the  warmth  of  a  devo- 
tior.  which  Algie  thought  divine. 

Jack  paused  for  an  instant  and  cried  out  to 
Algie :  "  I  trust  your  honor.  There's  a 
chance   of  one  life    between    us  ;    whichever 


272  JACK  O'DOON. 

wins,    his    life   belongs    to   Mercy.     I    divide 
with  you  that  chance  !  " 

Algie ,  revived  at  this  possibility,  saw  Jack 
take  the  line  in  his  hands,  and,  lying  down, 
stretch  his  body  stiff,  and  roll  with  difficulty 
across  the  quicksand  toward  himself.  Jack 
strained  to  reach  Algie,  but  though  his  hands 
touched  him,  he  had  not  grasp  enough  to 
clutch  him,  without  letting  go  the  line, 

"  For  God's  sake,  struggle  towards  me  1 " 
cried  Jack.  Algie  did  his  uttermost,  but  was 
so  tight  in  the  sands  that  he  could  not  move. 

Jack  shuddered  with  terror.  What  if  they 
both  should  die  thus  ! 

He  lifted  his  eyes  for  another  look  at  the 
dear  land  he  was  exchanging  for  a  loathsome 
grave  ;  and  then,  without  hope  for  himself, 
but  braving  the  frightful  death,  he  let  go  his 
hold  of  the  line,  and  kneeling  upon  the  sand, 
into  which  he  speedily  sank,  he  thrust  his 
powerful  arms  under  Algie's  shoulders, 
clasped  them  around  him,  and  with  the  help 
of  Algie's  feeble  efforts,  lifted  him  bodily  out 
of  the  sands,  while  he,  poor  Jack,  sank  down 
in  his  place. 

"Lean  on  me!  Only  lean  on  me,"  cried 
Jack,  with  heroic  self-immolation,  "  and 
stretch  yourself  out  as  straight  and  stiff  as 
you  can.  Surely  God  will  let  us  live  till  the 
tide  comes  in  ; "  and  he  watched  the  foam 
gather  round  him,  whilst  he  sank  faster  and 
faster  under  the  burden  of  Algie,  borne  upon 
his  shoulders. 


JACK  O' BOON.  273 

"  Fling  yourself  sideways  on  the  breaker, 
and  remember,  it  is  for  Mercy's  sake  that  I 
give  you  my  life." 

Algie,  confused  by  the  tumult  in  his  mind, 
and  dazed  by  the  terrors  he  had  gone  through, 
oniy  vaguely  understood,  at  the  time,  the 
words  which  Jack  had  uttered  ;  although  the 
instinct  of  self-preservation  made  him  cling  to 
Jack's  shoulder. 

God  only  knows  what  heroes  feel  when  they 
die  :  there  are  so  few  !  But  they  seem  to 
cast  aside  the  poverty  of  the  flesh,  as  if  it 
were  verily  but  rags  hiding  the  immortal 
spirit.  Who  wonders  that  the  heathen  adored 
and  apotheosized  them,  feeling  it  impossible 
that  such  godliness  should  cease  at  death  or 
fail  of  its  glory. 

At  last  a  great  breaker  burst  over  them, 
and  wrenching  Algie  from  Jack's  upholding 
arms,  shoved  him  along  the  surface  of  the 
quicksand,  and  left  him  upon  the  skirt  of  the 
shelly  beach. 

Then  Jack  was  free  to  fight  for  his  life.  He 
gasped  for  breath,  for  the  water  had  been 
over  him,  and  struggled  to  regain  the  line. 
He  had  touched  it.  In  a  moment  more  he 
could  have  grasped  it  firmly,  but  another 
great  breaker  came  and  swept  it  far  beyond 
his   reach. 

Algie's   arms  were  palsied.     He  could  not 
lift  the    line,  nor    fling    it    to  Jack,   who    was 
drowning,   with   the  surf  breaking  over   his 
head. 
18 


274  JACK  O'DOON. 

Again  and  again  Algie  tried,  but  he  could 
not  move.  His  body  was  rigid  with  cramps, 
and  was  only  a  prison  to  his  agonized  spirit. 

Jack  strangled.  Algie  could  hear  the 
gurgling  as  he  listened  with  bated  breath. 
In  his  despair  at  not  being  able  to  save  him, 
Algie  would  have  died  with  him,  and  endeav- 
ored to  throw  himself  into  the  quicksand,  but 
a  breaker  promptly  rolled  him  back. 

And  so  Jack  died,  fulfilling  the  prophecy 
of  his  superstition,  and  making  good  the  as- 
surance which,  out  of  the  generosity  of  his 
heart,  he  had  given  Mercy,  that  he  loved  her 
so  well  that  he  believed  he  could  die  to  save 
the  life  of  a  man  she  loved. 

-X-  ^  *  *  ^ 

And  while  this  frightful  tragedy  was  being 
enacted  a  child  had  been  running  toward 
Blessington  House.  Speechless  from  fright, 
gasping  for  breath,  and  with  her  little  hand 
upon  her  heart,  she  rushed  against  the  Cap- 
tain— who  was  promenading  the  garden- 
walk,  impatiently  awaiting  Algie — his  thumbs 
thrust  into  the  armholes  ot  his  waistcoat,  and 
his  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head. 

It  was  the  same  child  that  Jack  had  carried 
in  his  arms  and  warned  against  the  sands  on 
the  day  of  his  father's  funeral. 

"  The  sands,  the  sands  !  "  gasped  she. 

"Good  Lord,"  cried  the  Captain,  "what 
sands  do  ye  mean  ?  " 

"  A  man's  in  the  sands  !  The  quicksands," 
cried  the  child. 


JACK  O' BOON.  275 

Mercy,  listening  at  the  open  window,  and 
with  a  beating  heart  expecting  Algie,  certain 
that  Jack  would  bring  him  back,  overheard 
the  child. 

She  listened  for  a  moment  incredulous,  and 
then  with  a  wail  of  terror  fled  out  of  the 
house  and  past  the  Captain,  still  parleying 
with  the  little  girl. 

All  the  household,  but  half  understanding 
why  they  went,  pursued  her  along  the  path 
by  which  Jack  had  followed  Algie,  and  came 
out  upon  the  cliff  where  Algie  and  Jack  suc- 
cessively had  stood. 

Something  like  a  log  lay  in  the  foam  which 
the  breakers  were  shoving  ashore.  Mercy 
climbed  down  the  cliff"  and  ran  toward  it,  dis- 
covering that  it  was  the  body  of  a  man. 

When  she  had  turned  the  face  to  the  moon- 
lisrht  she  saw  Algie,  but  could  not  tell  if  he 
breathed. 

Tearing  the  shirt  from  his  breast,  she 
pressed  her  ear  against  his  flesh.  The  heart 
was  faintly  beating.  Overcome  by  her 
grief,  she  pressed  him,  wet  and  cold,  in  her 
arms. 

The  others,  hurrying  after,  took  him  away 
from  her,  and  removed  him  beyond  the  reach 
of  the  tide.  Finding  that  he  was  alive,  they 
scanned  the  beach  for  Jack. 

"  It's  strange  we  don't  see  nothin'  on  him," 
some  one  said,  whilst  they  were  endeavoring 
to  restore  Algie. 

One    of  the  men   presently   espied    a   long 


276  JACK  0' DOOM. 

black  line  shoved  about  amid  the  foam,  and 
examined  it. 

A  sailor's  clothes,  knotted  together,  and 
tied  to  a  peg  on  the  edge  of  the  quicksand. 
Where  could  the  man  be  ?  Who  was  he  ? 
Could  he  have  sunk  in  the  sands  ?  Surely 
not  Jack,  who  knew  their  danger  well. 

But  when  Algie  came  to,  the  wretched  truth 
was  disclosed,  and  all  standing  there  felt 
dumb  under  the  dreadful  blow.  Without  a 
word,  they  stood  watching  the  flood  tide 
spread  a  silvery  sheet  over  where  Jack  lay. 

"  My  God,  man,  you'll  have  to  do  a  lot  o' 
good  in  this  here  worl'  to  cost  sich  a  price  ! " 
cried  the  Captain,  merciless  in  the  bitterness 
of  his  grief. 

Mercy  pressed  Algie  closer,  in  the  pity  of 
her  heart,  but  she  knew  that  what  her  father 
had  said  was  true. 

The  men  stood  staring  at  the  sea,  incredu- 
lous. 

"  It  could  not  be  !  "  they  thought.  "  Jack 
dead  !  " 

Jack,  the  pride  of  master  and  men  ;  a  few 
minutes  before  erect  in  the  splendor  of  man- 
hood, now  laid  low,  and  put  out  of  sight  for- 
ever, by  the  combined  infernal  devilment  of 
land  and  sea  !  " 

Mercy  knew  it  was  true.  She  alone  knew 
that  Jack  had  superstitiously  looked  forward 
to  the  necessity  of  dying  for  her.  He  had 
told  her  so  again  and  again  ;  many  memories 
swept  through  her  brain  with  a  great  rush. 


JACK  O'DOON.  277 

She  recalled  the  argument  with  Algie  about 
the  immortality  of  Jack's  courage  ;  and  the 
bitter  question  came  to  her  :  "  Has  Algie  one 
quality  as  noble  as  Jack's  love  for  me,  or  his 
devotion  to  his  fellow-men  ?  " 

Her  judgment  answered  "No,"  but  because 
of  something  great  and  generous  in  herself, 
she  pressed  Algie  more  closely  in  her  arms, 
feeling  that  she  had  strength  to  do  for  him 
all  that  Jack  had  done  for  her. 


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IDLE  THOUGHTS  OF  AN  IDLE  FELLOW. 

i2mo,  cloth,  $1.00;  i6mo,  paper,  35c. 

STAGE-LAND. 

Curious  Habits  and  Customs  of  its  Inhabitants. 
Illustrated  by  J.  Bernard  Partridge.  i2mo, 
cloth,  $1.00  ;  i6mo,  paper,  30c. 

HENRY  HOLT  &  CO,,  Publishers,  N.  V. 


SARAH  BARNWELL  ELLIOTT'S  NOVELS. 

Uniform  Edition,  lamo,  cloth,  $1.25. 

JERRY. 

''  Opens  on  a  plane  of  deep  emotional  force, 
and  never  for  a  chapter  does  it  sink  below  that 
level."— Z^y^. 

"  All  the  scenes  in  Burden's  mine  are  excellent. 
The  mystery  and  the  terror  of  the  old  workings 
are  indicated  with  decided  power,  and  the  de- 
scription is'  graphic  and  impressive.  .  .  '  Jerry  ' 
is  a  really  fresh,  vigorous,  and  highly  interesting 
story." — .A''.  V.  Tribuiie. 

JOHN  PAGET. 

"  A  story  very  far  above  the  ordinary." — Buf~ 
yalo  Cotnmercial. 

*'  Is  vivacious  and  humorous,  and  its  scenes  are 
evidently  drawn  from  life." — The  Churchman. 

"  Just  a  simple,  natural,  wholesome  and  thor- 
oughly satisfactory  novel." — Minneapolis  Trib- 
une. 

THE  FELMERES. 

Displays  the  same  intense  earnestness  that 
characterizes  "  Jerry." 


ANDERSON'S  ON  HORSEBACK. 

In    the    School    and  on   the   Road,     By 
Edward  L.  Anderson.    i2mo,  Si. 50. 

"  The  rules  cover  points  in  the  education  of  the 
horse  .  .  .  which  everj'  owner  of  a  saddle-horse 
ought  to  know.  ^  .  The  instructions  are  so  plain 
and  so  sensible  that  pleasure  riders  .  .  .  will  at 
once  perceive  their  usefulness." — N.  Y.  Tribune. 

HENRY  HOLT  &  CO., 
29  West  23d  Street,  New  York. 


A  very  good  novel, — The  Nation. 

Mr.  Ford's  able  political  novel. 

— Nezv  York  Times, 


HON.  PETER  STIRLING, 

And  wMt  People  tlioiiglit  of  Him. 

By  PAUL  LEICESTER  FORD. 
12mo.    31.50. 


The  Nation  i\\rt\\er  says  he  throws  "  floods  of 
Hght  on  the  raison  d''etre,  origin,  and  methods  of 
the  dark  figure  that  directs  the  destinies  of  our 
cities.  .  .  So  strongly  imagined  and  logically 
drawn  that  it  satisfies  the  demand  for  the  ap- 
pearance of  truth  in  art.  .  .  Telling  scenes  and 
incidents  and  descriptions  of  political  organiza. 
tion,  all  of  which  are  literal  transcripts  of  life  and 
fact — not  dry  irrelevancies  thrown  in  bj'  way  of 
imparting  information,  but  lively  detail,  needful 
for  a  clear  understanding  of  Stirling's  progress 
from  the  humble  chairmanship  of  a  primary  to 
the  dictator's  throne.  .  .  In  the  use  of  dramatic 
possibilities,  Mr.  Ford  is  discreet  and  natural,  and, 
without  giving  Stirling  a  heroic  pose,  manages  to 
win  for  him  very  hearty  sympathy  and  belief. 
Stirling's  private  and  domestic  story  is  well  knit 
with  that  of  his  public  adventures." 

The  Literary  World  says  :  "  Of  the  misman- 
agement and  villainy  practiced  in  the  wards,  of 
bossism,  obstructions  to  reform,  wranglings  and 
riots,  we  have  had  more  or  less  in  fiction,  but  noth- 
ing like  this.  .  .  Pages  which  read  like  actual  his- 
tory. .  .  A  fine,  tender  love  story.  .  .  A  very 
unusual,  but,  let  us  believe,  a  possible,  character 
.  .  .  Peter  Stirling  is  a  man's  hero.  .  .  Very 
readable  and  enjoyable." 

The  Boston  Advertiser  says  :  "  The_  book  is 
sure  to  excite  attention  and  win  popularity." 


HENRY  HOLT  k  CO.,  Im  York. 


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